by D. A. Adams
“Do as I say,” Roskin snapped. “We’re moving on.”
“Listen to your master,” Alganeon said, emerging from the inn. “And maybe we’ll let you keep those weapons.”
Roskin told Krestreon to lead them out of town, and Krondious reluctantly returned his axe to its place on the pack horse. Bordorn followed suit, and the group followed Krestreon south down the wide street. Behind them, the thirty Ghaldeons jeered and teased them as they went. Krondious glanced back once, but Roskin snarled at him to keep his eyes forward. Huffing audibly, the Kiredurk obeyed. They marched for an hour, crossing the river and several small hills. Deep tensions rippled through the group as they walked, and no one spoke. Once they were a safe distance from town, Roskin ordered them to halt and called them together.
“If anyone has anything to say to me, say it now,” he spoke sternly.
“We should’ve split their skulls,” Krondious said, waving his arms about. “Those dwarves were no match for us.”
“I agree,” Krestreon mumbled. “How could you just cave in like that?”
“Anything else?” Roskin asked.
Nobody spoke.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” Roskin said calmly, his voice deep and authoritative. “We’re not here to fight our own kind. We’re here to raise an army to fight the Great Empire. I got us out of there best I could to keep us focused on that goal and that goal alone. If anyone has a problem with that, you’re free to part my company right now.”
“I’m sorry,” Krondious said, hanging his head.
“Me, too,” Krestreon added. “We’ve got a higher purpose.”
“I give both of you my word,” Roskin said. “One day, we’ll go back there and settle the score. That thief needs to be brought down a notch or two, but right now, time is short.”
The dwarves nodded their agreement, and Roskin made a point to shake hands with each, stopping at Krondious.
“Make no mistake,” Roskin said, gripping the dwarf’s powerful hand. “You have nothing to prove to anyone.”
With that, he told them to eat lunch and be ready to march in half an hour. Kehldeon was two days away, and he wanted to reach it soon. He had hoped to offer the acting king his gold as a gesture of good faith, and without it, he wasn’t sure how to gain the dwarf’s favor. Since his father’s decision not to send troops during the Resistance, relations between the two houses had been strained. He would have to find some way to impress him, and after this fiasco, he would again have to win over the freed slaves, for he could sense from their body language that they didn’t understand why he hadn’t stood up to Alganeon. None of them had been leisure slaves, so he didn’t know how to explain his unwillingness to shed dwarven blood. Hopefully, he would think of something to sway the king and regain their respect before they reached Kehldeon. As he pondered these thoughts, Bordorn sat beside him.
“You did right back there, Pepper Beard,” the Ghaldeon said. “You got us all out alive.”
Roskin shrugged.
“I’ve been thinking about something, and I know my timing is terrible, but please consider it.”
“Okay?”
“We both know King Johreon won’t be easily convinced to help the Kiredurks.”
“I know.”
“But he might be willing to help the Snivegohn Valley Militia.”
“There’s no such thing,” Roskin said, arching his eyebrows at his friend.
“Sure there is. Me and these five Ghaldeons.”
Roskin cocked his head at Bordorn, considering the idea.
“I’m the great-great nephew of Logruhk the Vanished. King Johreon is a distant cousin. He might feel a sense of duty to help me defend the valley.”
Roskin finally realized what Bordorn was saying, that instead of asking for help for the Kiredurks, frame it in terms of helping the Ghaldeons defend themselves against the army that had already toppled one Ghaldeon king.
“And this time,” Roskin added. “I’m representing my father’s decision to support the cause. What do you think?”
“That’s a nice touch, Pepper Beard.”
“Let’s give it a try,” Roskin said, smiling at his old friend.
“It’ll be like that time we convinced your father we weren’t the ones who took the royal coach out at night.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Roskin chuckled. “We didn’t even have stubble yet.”
“Those poor guards we blamed it on.”
“Let’s rehearse our story,” Roskin said, still chuckling.
The two dwarves went over the tale, embellishing details and weaving together a plausible foundation. The Great Empire had overrun the valley, and Bordorn, who led the militia, had retreated to the slopes of Mount Lokholme. Seeing the peril, King Kraganere had dispatched Roskin and a thousand troops to assist. The Kiredurk force would attack from the slopes of Mount Gagneesh, and Bordorn was asking King Johreon to approach Lokholme further south to create three fronts against the Great Empire. The two dwarves rehearsed the story throughout the lunch rest and after they resumed marching, making sure their details matched. Krondious and the Ghaldeons joined in practicing the subterfuge, and by nightfall, they all had it memorized, down to the names of the captains left in charge of their respective forces.
***
Captain Roighwheil inspected the repairs underway on the southern gate and was pleased. Judging by the damage to the surrounding tunnels, the gate had been completely destroyed, but now, the masons had rebuilt the archway three blocks deep and had entrenched anchors into the stone to hold the new gate. The blacksmiths had already fashioned it and were waiting for the last of the mortar to set before fastening it to the anchors. Since Roskin had passed through, they had worked day and night to rebuild the fortification.
The captain was proud of Roskin for ordering the work done, for even with the small force from the capital, he felt confident they could hold off any size force until reinforcements arrived. If these repairs were just beginning and the Great Empire attacked, he would have had no chance to defend the gate. He was also proud of the dwarves who had laid the blocks and fashioned the gate. Their skills rivaled those of the old masters who had built the earliest sections of the kingdom, for the new archway and gate were as sturdy as any the captain had seen.
He found a Ghaldeon among the blacksmiths and asked the dwarf to follow him outside. On the trail, the captain, who like Roskin couldn’t see clearly further than a hundred yards, asked the Ghaldeon if he could see the army in the valley. The blacksmith walked to a clearing and peered out. After a moment, he turned to the captain and said:
“We better get that gate finished. There’s thousands of soldiers down there.”
“Could you tell if they’re on the trail up or just in the valley?”
“Looks like they’ve camped in the valley, but I can’t see the trailhead.”
The captain thanked the blacksmith and led him back inside. The Ghaldeon returned to the other blacksmiths and relayed the news. A ripple of panic ran through them, and the foreman, a thick-chested Kiredurk with a gray beard went to the masons and asked how much longer the mortar needed to set. The master mason quipped something hateful at the foreman, and as they squabbled, several blacksmiths and masons began shoving each other.
“Settle down!” Captain Roighwheil bellowed, his voice thunderous in the tunnel. The blacksmiths and masons froze and looked at him. “There’s no need for this nonsense.”
“We need to get that gate up,” the foreman returned.
“If you start hammering on that stone before the mortar’s ready, you’ll create weak spots, and the whole thing will collapse the first time it gets rammed,” the master mason said, his tone still hateful.
“How much longer?” Captain Roighwheil asked, his own tone telling the mason not to cross him.
“At least a full day.”
“What if that army is already on the trail?” the foreman asked the captain.
“Me and my troops wi
ll camp on the trail tonight to keep watch. If they attack, you put up that gate, and we’ll hold them off. If they don’t, there’s nothing to worry about. Either way, there’ll be no more bickering amongst ourselves. Understood?”
The master mason and the foreman both nodded.
“You dwarves shake hands and let this go. Our enemy is down there.”
As the dwarves shook hands and apologized, the captain turned and went to assemble his troops. While he didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on the narrow trail, he would rather keep everyone at ease by creating a buffer between the unfinished gate and the Great Empire. He didn’t anticipate an attack tonight, but since he couldn’t say for certain, this was his best option to ease the workers’ fears. One thing he had learned from fighting the ogres was fear could be an enemy worse than the opposing army, and the last thing he needed before the general arrived was a riot.
***
Vishghu sat across from her mother and waited for a response. The clan elders stared at the matriarch, their expressions as varied as their opinions. Some relished the idea of marching to confront the Great Empire but had differing opinions on where and when, and others believed they should hunker down behind their fortifications and wait. Still others didn’t trust Evil Blade at all and proclaimed the plan an outright double-cross to lure them into the open. Throughout the debate, Vishghu remained resolute that his plan was their best hope to defeat the humans and mend relations with the Kiredurks. After an extensive pause, her mother cleared her throat.
“Vishghu, answer one question. Why do you trust Evil Blade?”
“While he may be vicious and ruthless,” Vishghu responded, choosing her words carefully. “I have witnessed firsthand that he keeps his word.”
Several ogres scoffed at her, but the matriarch raised her hand to silence them.
“How so?” she asked.
Vishghu stared down in concentration, trying to frame her response into one solid image that would convince them. She had seen so many examples of both his brutality in battle and his sense of duty that she wasn’t sure how to narrow it down to one perfect instance. At Kwarck’s gate, he could’ve killed her but chose not to. On the Slithsythe, he could’ve fled but stood his ground against certain death to give her time to find Roskin. In the shadows of Hard Hope, he had saved her life, and among the Marshwoggs, he had stayed by her until she was able to travel. In her heart, she knew he would never go against his word, but explaining that to her own kind eluded her.
“She can’t think of one example,” an elder said.
Those who didn’t trust Evil Blade erupted into a cacophony of slurs against the old man. The matriarch rose from her seat and bellowed for silence. She looked at Vishghu and asked again for an illustration of his trustworthiness.
“See these scars,” she said, pointing to her legs and pulling up her shirt to reveal her abdomen. The elders gasped. “I got these fighting the orcs to escape their lands. When we reached the Marshwoggs, I was too weak to walk. Evil blade could’ve left with the dwarves and elves to seek refuge, but he didn’t. He remained by my bed until I healed. Then, he willingly returned to Kwarck’s to serve out his exile. Why wouldn’t I trust him?”
“And you are certain he will attack on the Winter Solstice?” her mother asked.
“So certain I will stand in that field alone if I have to. He will be there with the elves, and this will be our best chance to weaken the Great Empire and drive them from our lands.”
“Then, our clan will stand with you,” the matriarch said.
A grumble of dissent ran through the elders.
“Those who wish not to fight can hide like cowards,” the matriarch continued, her voice a low growl. “But those of us with spines will ride to Rugraknere and lure out our enemy.”
The crowd fell silent, and she dismissed the elders, ordering them to send as many riders as they could summon to request assistance from the other clans. As Vishghu rose to leave, the matriarch asked her to sit by her side, and the young ogre obeyed. While they waited for the riders to assemble, the matriarch didn’t speak, and the two sat quietly. Instead of being uncomfortable, the silence felt intimate. Throughout her childhood, Vishghu had thought her mother overbearing and overly critical. Nothing had pleased the clan leader, and Vishghu often felt as if she were a disappointment. Sitting there in silence, however, she sensed her mother’s pride, and for the first time in her life, Vishghu knew her mother approved of her. She wanted to say something but feared destroying the moment, so she remained quiet and soaked in the warmth of long-awaited approval.
When all the riders had gathered, the matriarch gave detailed instructions for what to say to the other matriarchs. They were to explain that Vishghu had learned of the Great Empire’s plan to attack her clan in the spring. The council of elders had decided to march to Rugraknere in winter to strike them before they were ready. The runners were to explain the plan had been devised by the council, and most importantly, there was to be no mention of Evil Blade or an army of elves. When she finished with the instructions, the matriarch made each rider swear an oath to follow her orders precisely. After each had sworn, she told them to ride to as many clans as each could reach and dismissed them.
“Dictate the time and place,” the matriarch said to her daughter, as the riders jogged off to find their mounts. “And you control the kind of battle being fought. I never thought of it that way before. At last, the Great Empire will feel the might of the ogres unleashed on them.”
Vishghu looked at her mother and smiled. Crushaw’s plan was in motion, and she liked her mother’s orders not to mention his name or the elves. The more desperate the situation seemed, the more clans were likely to respond, and the bigger the force they could gather, the more likely the Great Empire would be to march forward to meet them. With any luck, there would be heavy snows the week of the solstice, but even if that didn’t happen, at that time of year, there would be at least a few inches of snow already on the ground, giving the ogres the advantage. Her mother studied her face for a heartbeat and returned the smile. Then, she told her daughter to gather the soldiers and instruct them to train for battle. Vishghu nodded and hastened from the village square to find the clan warriors.
Chapter 6
A Shroud of Darkness
Crushaw picked at the scab on the inside of his left arm, the brown crust flaking off and drifting to the ground. He had awakened the elves two hours before sunrise for another ten mile run and now awaited their return. For two weeks, he had worked them nonstop – running them twice a day, drilling throughout daylight on weapons and formations, and teaching about tactics. Of course, most of the training was delegated through his captains, and while they proved to be quick studies on formations and strategies, their swordplay fell short of his expectations. They were skilled enough to take on average soldiers, but he anticipated General Strauteefe’s forces to be the best of the Great Empire, for he had impressed upon his replacement the importance of daily drills. At this moment, the elves would be slaughtered in pitched battle against them.
Since they had arrived, he no longer helped in the fields, and as daylight grew, he watched Kwarck lead Stahloor, Alysea, and Suvene into the crops to harvest. He and the orc stayed far from each other, eating at different times and walking in opposite directions if they crossed paths. Seeing the orc each day brought back memories of the plantation – beatings he had repressed, humiliations he had forgotten, scars he had hidden from himself. Growing up a slave had shaped him into the warrior he became, a cold and merciless killer who thrived on victory, and while old age and experience had mellowed that part of him slightly, seeing the orc regularly reminded him of why he had become infamous as Evil Blade. The masters had seared hate into his heart. Now, he wanted to be remembered as more than the slaughterer of ogres. That was no legacy to leave behind, and as he looked back on the jumbled memories of his life, he wished there were more there than images of death and pain. For that, he hated the orcs more than an
ything else.
Despite himself, Crushaw admired Suvene, for the young orc worked in the fields as hard as any slave the old man had known. The hard work demonstrated dignity and pride, something Crushaw had never seen in an orc. And the more the old man thought about Suvene’s sense of duty, the more impressed he became. Not only had Suvene risked his life to escape and warn his people, he had also then hunted Crushaw down to avenge the death of a friend. The world would be a better place if more had that kind of moxie. Like General Strauteefe, Suvene would make a good replacement when Crushaw was gone, and he was glad Kwarck would have someone dutiful to assist on the farm, even if it was an orc.
The nomads were due any time, and Crushaw hoped they would arrive this day because too much time was lost cooking. He needed those extra hours each day for more sword work, and once the nomads arrived, Kwarck had promised to allow Stahloor and Alysea to join the archers. For now, the wizard needed them for the harvest, but both were highly skilled with bows, and Crushaw wanted them in the army. Of the ten thousand elves, only a tenth had bows, and he was disappointed with that. Their long bows would be the difference in the battle, and he had hoped for twice as many. While a thousand would be enough to thin Strauteefe’s ranks, it might not keep his crossbows out of range.
As he mulled these thoughts, the elves came into sight, sprinting the last mile as he demanded. When they reached their campsites, the captains and twenty-five leaders ran to him to receive their daily orders. He would give the elves this much: so far they had lived up to their oath. Despite grueling runs and constant training, he had not heard one utterance of dissent, even as he pushed their bodies to their limits. Had he pushed human soldiers this hard, he would’ve had to make an example of several each day, but the elves bore the rigors without complaint. He was certain that was due, in part, to him telling them they were soft of heart. The fact that they had responded by proving him wrong gave him hope they would learn to wield their swords to his satisfaction.
“You orders, General?” the third swordsman asked, sweat dripping from his nose after the run.