by D. A. Adams
During that time, he grew fond of the citizens. For the most part, they were taciturn and stoic but not malicious or bitter; they simply had little to say because, as one dwarf put it, living around such history humbled them enough to keep them from thinking they had anything new to offer. When they did speak, they usually told some local legend or piece of trivia about a structure. Roskin listened to most only from respect for his hosts, but one story in particular caught his attention.
According to the legend, the Kiredurks of this city had crafted a ceremonial figurine for the Ghaldeon king during the Second Kingdom. The sculpture was cast from platinum and portrayed two dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder in a defensive posture. The gift symbolized the Ghaldeon spirit of brotherhood after they had helped the Kiredurks repel an invasion, and it had remained in Sturdeon for over two thousand years. Rumor was that when the Great Empire captured the city, all precious artifacts were moved to a human town to the east. A group of dwarves, loyal to the fallen Ghaldeon king found the hiding place and reclaimed several pieces. After this, the remaining treasure was transferred to a fortress along the northern border for protection. The fortress had been built by the most ruthless general of the Great Empire, a man referred to by the ogres on whom he had waged war as “Evil Blade.” None who had been taken to the fortress was seen again, so no dwarf or ogre actually knew if the Brotherhood of Dwarves was there or not, but it had not been part of the recovered treasure.
Roskin heard that story three times in Kireghegon, and it appealed to him. He had met the descendants of the displaced Ghaldeon king, who had died in the barn of a pig farm seventy miles from his palace. The farmer never knew that the king had been hiding on his farm until he noticed the smell one morning, and even then the farmer only knew that a filthy, disheveled old man had ruined a week’s worth of feed. The farmer went to his grave without sharing the story with anyone, fearing he might be charged with murder by the Great Empire, and for years few believed the king was dead because the body was never recovered.
The king’s grandson, now an old man himself named Gebdorn, had sought and received exile in Dorkhun, and Roskin had grown up hearing stories about the Ghaldeons and their once mighty kingdom. As a boy, he had always felt sorry for Gebdorn and had many times offered to help reclaim the lost lands, but the old dwarf would smile, pat Roskin’s head, and say that the old ways were lost, the old brotherhoods broken. As Roskin grew into a young man, more of the fallen king’s family moved to Dorkhun, and he had become close friends with a great nephew named Bordorn, who was two years older and taught Roskin how to wield a short sword. When he came of age, Bordorn decided to join the Resistance of the western tribes, and on the night he left, Roskin had walked with him for several miles.
“I go to certain death,” Bordorn had said.
“Don’t say that. It’s awful to think.”
“Your city and kingdom are magnificent, but I would rather die fighting for my name than hide like a coward and grow old.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I can see that. Then, I’d have two armies to fight.” Bordorn laughed and punched Roskin in the arm.
“When I’m of age no one can stop me.”
“Then join us if you wish, Pepper Beard.”
But after Bordorn had left and Roskin had returned to the palace, King Kraganere lectured his son for three months on how the Kiredurks had not joined in that battle because the Great Empire was too powerful for their armies, and it was better for their kingdom to help the Ghaldeons through other means, like food and money, than to risk an invasion they could not repel. Roskin never agreed with his father but gave up that dream of glory as more and more duties became his. Yet he had remained in touch with Bordorn, who had not died because the Resistance had grown so weak and insignificant that there were no battles left to fight. For his part, Bordorn lived with a small tribe in the Snivegohn Valley and also gave up fighting for what was already lost.
After the Kireghegon Halls were mapped, Roskin traveled north to Geishkuhn, the most distant township, and there he found more hospitality and more legends told around more pitchers of ale. He spent a week in that city, and from there he crisscrossed east and west on his way south. He mapped every major city and minor township until he reached the outer gate that opened onto the Ghaldeon lands. Over two years had passed when he finished the last map, and Roskin was ready to return home, but one night in a township outside of Dorkhun, he heard again the tale of the stolen statue, the Brotherhood of Dwarves, from an ogre merchant traveling on business.
“They say it’s kept in Evil Blade’s castle, but no one knows,” the ogre said, waving his gnarled hands for effect.
“What do you know of this statue?” Roskin huffed.
“I know that its worth is more than this whole township.”
“Sounds like a fool’s treasure to me,” the barkeep said from behind the bar.
“Yeah, you’d never make it in and out,” another ogre added.
“Surely there’s a secret entrance,” Roskin said.
“You’d be full of arrows before you found it,” the second ogre returned.
“There’s one who knows the way in and around that place, and he might be willing to help,” the first ogre said.
“Help with what?” the barkeep asked, wiping out a tankard.
“Stealing the treasure.”
“None of you are that crazy, I hope,” the barkeep said, returning the mug to its hook above the bar.
“We’re just talking,” the first ogre said. “But there is one who would do it.”
“Who?” Roskin asked.
“Evil Blade, himself.”
The second ogre nearly fell backwards from his seat. “That is crazy. He would cut your throat or boil your head in oil. He’d never help any but himself.” He spat on the floor when he finished.
“He’s an old man, now, and he’s not on good terms with Emperor Vassa anymore.”
“How do you know this?” Roskin asked.
“A few years ago an army of several clans drove Evil Blade’s forces from the homeland. He was disgraced by the defeat, and the Emperor stripped him of his rank and banished him to a little town in the Ghaldeon lands. I bet he’d like to get even.”
“I’d rip him limb from limb. He killed half my clan in one year. Even after we surrendered, he kept killing us. He’s the devil, and I’d rip him limb from limb,” the second ogre hissed. He slammed his fist on the table and stood. “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.”
“It’s just talk, anyway,” Roskin said with a wink to the first ogre, but in his mind the idea began to burgeon. He would find Evil Blade and convince the old man to get him to the statue. Then, he would turn the fallen general over to the ogres, who wanted vengeance for the terror he had unleashed on their lands. Roskin had heard the stories of Evil Blade wiping out villages and showing no mercy to any ogre – male, female, or babe, but Roskin did not fear him. The old man might have been fierce in his day, but Roskin was in his prime. If it came down to it, there wouldn’t be much of a fight.
Two days later, he was back in Dorkhun, and his stepmother and siblings had arranged a party in his honor in the courtyard behind the palace. Exotic meats roasted on spits, and aged ale flowed freely from kegs. For three days most of the city shut down commerce and industry, showing honor to the heir, and every house rang with song. To Roskin, the festival seemed extravagant, but unbeknownst to him, the mapping had been more of a rite of passage than an official duty. Every Kiredurk heir back to Lord Thysian had, as part of his unique education, walked the entire kingdom and sketched a record of his future lands. If the heir failed at this task, he was found unworthy for kingship and had to turn over the throne to another. Throughout history, only two Kiredurks had failed the task, one from dying in a cave-in and the other from being too lazy. When those two had failed, their respective families had had no other legitimate heir, and the crown had passed to a new family. King Kraganere was the tenth king
of his line, which represented the Eighth Kingdom. Erycke the Just’s bloodline established and maintained the First Kingdom and ended when the fifth king and his wife were unable to have children. The transition from the First Kingdom to the Second was the bloodiest and most chaotic, for in those days, clear laws had not been developed. When Lord Thysian’s blood failed after nine crowns, the Third Kingdom evolved from a series of contests between the strongest and wisest generals. Very little blood was shed in that transition, and in each successive Kingdom, the change of power through force lessened until between the Seventh and Eight Kingdoms the respect for law and peace had become so much a part of Kiredurk culture that none dared violate the sanctity of what the council decided. King Kraganere explained all of this to him in the private study the fourth day of Roskin’s return.
“When I passed my walking of the kingdom, my father explained to me as I will explain to you, the secret to peace within this kingdom begins with the king, for if you do not have inner peace, this kingdom will fall into chaos. To find your inner calm, you are granted one year of freedom to do anything you please within our lands, but choose carefully. During that year you lose your status as the heir and must remain outside of this palace without any insignia.”
“What was your choice?” Roskin asked.
“I was bold and headstrong. I thought the outside world was where I belonged, so I chose to travel to the ends of the earth.” The king stopped and stared out the window, a smile faintly showing.
“Where did you go?”
“First, I went to Kehldeon and played music for the travelers at the Crescent Moon Inn. Then, I turned east and traveled into the conquered lands.”
“That is where you met my mother?”
“Not right away. On the way to Turhjik, I was spotted by a patrol of the Great Empire. In those days, the Resistance was still strong, and any dwarf found away from his or her labor was considered a threat to peace, so they chased me into the lowlands that bordered the Loorish Forest. They gave up chase, but the elves didn’t trust outsiders. An archer shot me in the chest, and I was left for dead.”
The king pulled up his white tunic and revealed the scar just to the right of his heart. Roskin leaned closer to his father to hear more clearly because seeing the scar made the story seem more real and more immediate, and he felt a strong need to protect his father.
“Your grandmother found me at the base of her tree dwelling and took pity on me. The rest you already know.”
Roskin pressed his hand to the king’s cheek and held it there. He wanted badly to tell him of the statue and the fortress and Evil Blade, but he knew his father would never let him travel into the Great Empire, not after telling that story.
“I want to visit Bordorn and live with the Ghaldeons,” Roskin lied.
“If you leave the kingdom, your safety cannot be guaranteed.” The king took Roskin’s hand and held it tightly.
“I will be safe with Bordorn.”
“Very well. In the morning, we will announce it to the council.”
That night, Roskin assembled gear for the cross-country hike. According to his maps, the road to Bordorn’s village was a couple of days from the outer gate, but the way into the conquered lands would take at least two weeks. As he organized the sleeping bag, cook set, and hunting tools, his stepmother came to his room. She was a thoughtful woman who had never shown resentment towards Roskin’s mother, and she had always treated him with the same love and care given to her natural children.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, helping him load the backpack. “Your father needs you to return. The kingdom needs it.”
“Ma’am, I’ll be safe. The road to Bordorn’s tribe is too far west for the Great Empire.”
“You can tell that lie to your father, and he may act like he believes you, but I know better. Where are you going?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Roskin, don’t treat me like a fool. Where?”
The young dwarf looked into her eyes and knew that her intuition had formed a guess.
“He would not let me go if he knew.”
“Because it’s not safe,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I always knew you’d want to find her.”
“I have to know,” he said, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Then go to Bordorn first, and let him go with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hugged him and slipped several strange coins into his purse. He had already packed several dozen Kiredurkian coins in his backpack, and he was puzzled by her gift.
“Out there,” she said. “Our coins aren’t always the wisest choice. You will need these.”
He hardly slept that night. Visions of what the outside world would look like raced through his mind. He had been to the surface many times, but always within the kingdom and in the same three locations that were used for athletic events. He had heard stories of meadows and forests, but having the opportunity to see them for himself almost seemed surreal. When his attendant woke him the next morning, he felt drunk from grogginess but climbed from bed and dressed quickly.
The morning was a blur of activity, and the ceremonies to send him off seemed endless and dull beyond belief, yet by lunch he was on the road to the southern outer gate. The two week trip through the kingdom was much different without his insignia. Dwarves he’d sat with just days before turned him from their doors like a beggar, and the only foods offered to him were scraps and leftovers. By the time he reached the gate, Roskin was more tired and hungry than ever before, and his back ached from sleeping on hard stone and damp earth. He was ready to get above ground.
The guards who searched and questioned every person who passed through the gates opened his backpack and threw the contents in the snow outside, as they would with any renegade or outlaw banished from the kingdom. When Roskin tried to get back his poetry journal, the guards laughed and shoved him around. At first Roskin played along, believing it an extension of the ceremonies, but when a female guard began reading one of his poems in a mocking voice, his temper flared beyond control. He punched the guard in the nose, and she slunk to her knees, coughing and spitting from the blood that poured down her face. The other guards were stunned at first, and Roskin managed to knock out two more before they could react. He had always been an excellent grappler and pugilist, but one dwarf is no match for nine. The guards punched and kicked him until his eyes swelled and his ribs went numb; then they flung him out the gate into a snow pile.
“You’re lucky we don’t cut your heart out, renegade,” one guard said, kneeling over him. “But if you return to this kingdom, we will.”
The guard punched him one last time and left him in the snow. Roskin lay still and tried to catch his breath. He had lost fights before but had never been hurt like this. He ached all over and could barely see, and the snow was beginning to burn his skin, even through his leather boots and thick clothes. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, he got to all fours and began repacking his gear. When he was sure that everything was accounted for and repacked, he glanced back at the gate and saw that a guard was watching him with a crossbow in her hands. There was no choice but to go down the mountain.
Chapter 2
Into the Conquered Lands
Mount Gagneesh measures over 7,000 feet, one of the smallest peaks in its range, and the outer gate of the Kiredurk kingdom is only three miles from Snivegohn Valley, but to Roskin the walk felt like ten. Between the foot of snow, his limited vision, and the stabbing pains in his ribs, he could only walk a few yards at a time. According to his map, he was at least a mile from the valley when the shadows of other mountains turned evening into early twilight. Normally, he would have kept going because his eyesight in darkness was much better than in daylight, but on this night he was too exhausted and too disoriented to safely go any farther. After clearing a small campsite, he gathered kindling and branches from the ponderosa pines and junipers that grew near the trail and sta
rted a fire. Then, he ate a light supper of dried meats and seeds, hoping to watch the moon rise, for he had heard stories of moonlight and mystical women, but on his first night outside, he was asleep before the sun had fully set.
The next morning he awoke to the thump and slosh of hooves coming up the trail. He tried to jump up, but his stomach and arms had joined his ribs in sending nauseating pain through his entire body, so he crawled to all fours and slowly got to his feet. A tan horse was struggling to pull a rickety wagon in the snow, and an old Ghaldeon was behind trying to push and steer the wagon around a bend. The old dwarf fell in the snow, and the horse and wagon were heading for the ravine, so Roskin hustled to them despite the pain. He took the horse’s bridle and calmed the snorting beast, then guided it back to the middle of the trail. When the horse and wagon were safe, he went to the old dwarf, who was trying to stand in the packed snow. Roskin took the merchant by the arm and steadied him.
“Thank you kindly,” the dwarf said. “Not as spry as I used to be.”
“Are you okay?”
“Better than you, by the looks.”
“It’s nothing,” Roskin huffed, wanting to explain that he had been outnumbered.
The old dwarf introduced himself as Torkdohn, merchant from Sturdeon, and led Roskin to the wagon. He rummaged through a crate under his seat and produced a glass bottle with a cork stopper, which he undid with his teeth.
“This ointment will help the swelling,” Torkdohn said, rubbing it around Roskin’s eyes. The young Kiredurk flinched from the pain. “You’ll be better in a day or so, mark my words. Where you heading?”
“Near Sturdeon.”
“Dangerous road. Important business?”
“I prefer to keep it my own, sir.”