by D. A. Adams
“Morning,” Grussard said flatly.
Without speaking, Roskin pulled out his axe and extended it to the blacksmith. Grussard took it and looked at the cracked weapon for a couple of seconds. Then, he tossed the weapon on a junk pile, muttering something about Kiredurk weapons that Roskin didn’t completely catch.
“I need an axe,” Roskin said.
“I can see that. What do you expect from me?”
“I want to buy one.”
“Well, I know you can afford it, but I can’t make any axes. That’s the law.”
“And a son of the Resistance always obeys.”
“Watch it, pup.”
“What can you make that I could wield?”
Grussard went to the far wall and fingered through several swords, finding a blade that was just over two feet long. He removed the sword from its hook and tested the balance by swinging it in a figure eight several times. He smiled proudly and handed it to Roskin, who hadn’t held a sword since Bordorn had taught him almost ten years before.
“A fine sword for your height,” Grussard said. “But it’s not yet very sharp.”
“How much?”
“Five of those old coins.”
“Sounds steep by your reasoning last night.”
“It is, but the price of selling arms to dwarves is my life, so it’s five coins or nothing.”
Tucking the sword under his arm, Roskin opened his purse and saw that he only had six coins total, so he made an offer of three. Grussard laughed and looked at the broken axe on his scrap pile, scratching his beard and humming a tune unfamiliar to Roskin. Both dwarves stood without talking for nearly a minute.
“Tell you what,” Grussard said, taking the sword back from Roskin. “Make it four coins, and I’ll give you some of the local currency to get you around.”
“Agreed.”
“Come back in a bit. I need to sharpen this thing and find something for you to carry it in. And I’ll take half my pay now.”
Roskin gave Grussard the two coins and went outside to get Red to show him to a tailor’s house to get local clothing. The old man was still on the bench, and the bottle was less than half full. His speech had become slurred, and he wobbled when he stood.
“May I?” Roskin asked, reaching for the bottle.
“Sure. Anything for you, my good friend.”
Roskin corked the bottle and slipped it into a small sack on his belt.
“That’s mine. I paid for it.”
“I’ll let you have it back, but take me to the tailor’s.”
“Okay, but that’s my whiskey. I’ll not be swindled.”
“Just lead the way.”
Red looked around at the buildings, trying to get his bearings, but the liquor was doing its job too well. He sat back on the bench and closed his eyes. Roskin helped him lay on the bench, and he began muttering about some battle he had been in long ago. Disgusted, Roskin left the old man there and started back to Molgheon’s place. She could give him directions, and by the time he could get fitted, the sword would be ready. Then, he would pick up and pay for the clothes and feel less conspicuous. On the way, he got lost twice and had to backtrack to find the right alleys. As he neared the tavern, the dark fear began to rise, not as suddenly as with the orcs but steadily nonetheless, and as he reached the back entrance, he heard human voices coming from inside. He crept to one of the rear windows and peeked inside.
Several guards were there in full arms, and two were badgering her about where the stranger had gone. For her part, Molgheon kept repeating that he had left before sunrise and that she knew nothing else. Roskin wanted to help her, fearing that they were about to get violent, but he had no weapon, save the dagger, and there were too many of them to grapple, so he watched as the interrogation continued. To his surprise, the humans didn’t touch her, despite raising their voices and knocking chairs from the tables.
“He was just passing through,” she said. “He paid me a few coins to sleep upstairs.”
“Dwarf, if we find out you are lying, we’ll tear this place to pieces.”
“Yeah. He’s worth a lot to the slave trader, which means he’s worth a lot to us. You wouldn’t want us to have to collect that money from you, right?”
“I got no reason to help a dark beard,” Molgheon said, still not showing any emotion.
“That’s good. You’ve always been good, for a dwarf.”
“If you remember anything, let us know. We’ll consider it a favor, if you understand.”
“I’m loyal to the Great Empire,” she said, staring down.
The two soldiers in charge barked instructions at the others, telling them to pair off and search the whole town, but Roskin didn’t wait to hear everything. He hurried back down the alley towards Grussard’s shop and made the right turns this time. Red was asleep on the bench, wheezing in a steady rhythm, and Roskin shook him mightily. The old man coughed from deep in his chest and slowly opened his eyes.
“I need out of town,” Roskin said.
“Follow the road.”
“Wake up, you old fool. I’m in trouble. Help me.”
“Where’s my bottle? Give me my bottle.”
“I’ll give you the bottle when I’m safe.”
“That’s not fair. I paid for it myself.”
“I don’t have time for this. The soldiers are after me for killing three orcs.”
“Orcs!” Red growled, stumbling to his feet. “Where? I’ll tear them apart.”
“I already killed them.”
“You killed them all?”
“I think, but the soldiers are after me.”
“I’ll help you kill more orcs,” Red said, his eyes wide and his nostrils flared.
Roskin rushed into the shop with Red right behind him, and Grussard looked up from the grinding stone in surprise.
“It ain’t ready,” he said. “Just got started.”
“Here’s your other coins. I can’t wait.” Roskin tossed the two coins on a table as Grussard unhooked the sword from the grips.
“Let me get your change.”
“Forget it. I have to go.”
“We’re killing orcs,” Red said.
“Orcs?” Grussard asked, furrowing his brow.
“I killed three orcs on Keshgheon. The soldiers are trying to arrest me.”
“I hate orcs,” Red added. “Filthy, evil beasts.”
“Take him north out of town,” Grussard said to Red. Then he turned to Roskin. “Follow the river for two days, and you’ll reach a burnt bridge. To the northwest will be an abandoned mine. Hold up there until I can bring you supplies.”
“I’ve a case of whiskey at Molgheon’s,” Red said. “Don’t forget it.”
Grussard looked out the door and motioned that it was clear. Red went out first, and Roskin followed him across the street to another alley. They wound in between rows of houses without much trouble, for the soldiers were still behind them. As they neared the end of the stone buildings, Red crouched behind a shed and motioned for Roskin to do the same. The old man explained that the northern end of town had been rebuilt for the humans. Once they passed the last stone house, they would be surrounded by humans, most of whom loathed the dwarves and hated Red even more for living among them. If Roskin and Red could reach the bridge unnoticed by staying near the wooden structures, they would have a chance to run across before the soldiers in the watchtower spotted them.
“That’s the best I can do with this notice,” Red said, eyeing the sack that bulged with his bottle. “Can I get a taste before we go?”
Roskin handed him the bottle, and Red took a short swig before handing it back. As Roskin returned the bottle to the sack, Red stepped from behind the shed and started towards the human section. Roskin waited for him to get safely behind the first wooden house before scurrying across the street himself. They stayed low as they trotted along the buildings, trying to remain below the windows, and fortunately no one spotted them as they approached the tower, bu
t to Roskin’s dismay, a platoon of soldiers, armed with crossbows and pikes, was already at the bridge. Once again, his adventure seemed doomed before it even got started. He cursed under his breath and kicked the dry dirt with the toe of his boot.
“Wait here,” Red said. “I’ll get their attention. When they leave their post, you get across that bridge and make for the mine. If I can, I’ll meet you there.”
“Red, wait,” Roskin said. “You don’t have to come with me. There are no more orcs.”
“Just wait. There’s always more orcs.”
“But you can stay here. You’re safe. No one’s looking for you.”
“Young master,” Red said, smiling and putting his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “You need me against them.”
With that, Red crept around the corner and made his way between several buildings until he was nearly two hundred yards east of the bridge. When Roskin could no longer see the old man, he looked back at the soldiers, who were holding their weapons offensively to show off for a group of young women gathered at the entrance of a saloon. Roskin scanned the area near the tower and noticed a gray and white horse hitched to a small wagon near a store. The wagon was empty, and he figured the owner was inside the store delivering goods. He had very little experience driving or riding a horse, but if the guards gave chase, he would have better odds with it than without.
He darted across the alley and slipped to the building behind the store, almost thirty yards from the tower and forty from the bridge. He glanced back and forth from the soldiers to the horse, waiting for Red to create the diversion. After a few minutes, he had nearly decided that the old man had failed, but suddenly one of the soldiers pointed to the east and yelled, “Fire!” The platoon ran in that direction, calling to the buildings they passed for more help. Roskin waited till he heard people running from the store, and then the dwarf sprinted to the horse and wagon. He sliced the tether with his dagger and hopped onto the seat, laying his sword beside him. He snapped the reins and turned the horse towards the bridge. To his right, smoke billowed from a row of buildings as the conflagration grew. The soldiers and civilians had formed a fire line from the river to the fire’s edge, and buckets, helmets, tankards, and anything else that could hold water were passing back and forth in a frenzy of motion.
Roskin got the horse up to a steady trot and reached the bridge without anyone seeing him. With each hoof that clomped on the bridge, he braced for a crossbow bolt or spear to strike him, and by the time he reached the far shore, his jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but he made it safely. He stopped the horse on solid ground and engaged the hand brake, fastening it with a leather strap. The horse whinnied and stomped, wanting to keep moving away from the noise and chaos, but Roskin grabbed his sword, climbed from the wagon, and crept back to the bridge. To him, the shapes near the fire were fuzzy and impossible to discern, but he wanted to wait for Red, so he peered towards the watchtower and far end of the bridge, squinting to improve his view.
Finally, Red appeared from behind a building and was making his way to the bridge. From the south, several platoons were heading for the fire line, but five soldiers broke rank and began chasing the old man. Red had a substantial lead, and Roskin was sure he could make it to the wagon, but as he stepped onto the bridge, archers from the tower began firing at him. Roskin watched, frozen from fear, as bolts splintered the wood all around Red. The old man ignored the volley and kept running. The foot soldiers had closed the gap to less than a hundred yards, and Roskin called for Red to make for the wagon. Two thirds across the bridge, Red was hit in the upper shoulder by a missile and lost his balance. He stumbled forward a few feet but landed face first on the worn wood. Roskin charged forward to help Red to his feet, and bolts thudded all around him as he neared his fallen ally.
“Leave me,” Red said, raising his head as Roskin was within a few yards. “Save yourself.”
“Get up. The soldiers are almost on us,” the dwarf yelled, narrowly dodging a bolt.
He grabbed the old man’s good shoulder and yanked him to his knees, and Red groaned from the pain but managed to stand. Roskin saw that the soldiers were within twenty yards, but the crossbows had stopped firing.
“Get to that wagon,” the dwarf said, shoving Red in that direction.
Red managed to stagger forward, and Roskin turned to face the soldiers. The five fanned out into a line and slowed to a creep, readying their pikes. Roskin brought the sword up in a short guard posture, his left foot slightly in front and his right hand on top of the grip. His heart pounded and his knees felt weak, and he couldn’t remember any of the slices, parries, or draws that Bordorn had taught him.
“Try to take that one alive,” one soldier said. “He’s worth a sack-full.”
“He’s just one dwarf,” another said. “Let’s get him.”
The soldier swung the butt-end of his pike in a downward strike, and the dwarf stepped aside of the blow and countered by snapping the pole in two with a quick stomp when it struck ground. The soldier stumbled forward, and Roskin brought the pommel down on top of the man’s head, knocking him out. At once, the other four charged, also using the butt-ends of their pikes, but Roskin rolled to his right and tripped the soldier on the flank, knocking down two more in the process. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, each man cursing the other two. The last man backed away and turned the blade of his pike towards Roskin.
“I’ll cut you good, filthy dwarf,” he said, dropping into an offensive posture.
Roskin blocked the pike with his sword and shoulder-tackled the man, knocking him off balance. As the man stumbled, Roskin swung the flat side of the blade against the man’s head, causing blood to pour from an open wound. The man slumped to his knees, grabbing for the side of his head, and fell forward. The other three were getting to their feet, but Roskin had already begun sprinting for safety. A volley of bolts thudded all around him as he reached the end of the bridge. Red had fallen again beside the wagon, and the dwarf tossed his sword into the bed before grabbing the old man by his dry-rotted clothing and hoisting him up. Red groaned as the dwarf forced him over the railing into the bed, and the old man landed on his wounded shoulder with a thud.
Roskin hopped onto the seat and unlatched the brake with one hand and reached for the reins with the other. The horse bolted forward as soon as the brake released, causing the dwarf to almost flip over the seat. Red moaned loudly from the bed, and Roskin glanced around to see the soldiers stop chasing not far from the bridge. A few bolts whistled overhead, but the wagon was well beyond a crossbow’s accuracy, so none of the shots were close. Roskin snapped the leather straps to get more speed, and the wagon bounced and jostled down the road, leaving Murkdolm behind.
Chapter 4
A Narrow Escape
Five days after leaving Murkdolm, Roskin sat at the mine’s entrance and watched for Grussard. As he waited, he picked chunks of scab from his ear and scalp, hoping the scars wouldn’t be too grotesque, but he could feel that the ear was fairly mangled. Fortunately, the inner ear wasn’t damaged, and his hearing was intact. Considering the encounter with the orcs and the skirmish with the soldiers, he thought himself lucky to have a wound that small. Red had also been lucky; the crossbow bolt had missed his collarbone and had only damaged the trapezius muscle of his left shoulder. Torkdohn’s salve had healed the puncture, and Red had already regained some motion.
But Red’s injury was a minor nuisance compared to his craving for alcohol. The bottle had lasted for two days, but since it had gone dry, Red had been intolerable as withdrawals took hold. The first day without whiskey he had sat against the wall, shaking and sweating, but on the second day, he began to hallucinate spiders on his back and legs. He had even scratched raw streaks on his skin. To Roskin, the most annoying part was that the man had talked unceasingly about needing a taste of the whiskey he had bought, and every few minutes he would ask if Grussard had made it.
By the evening of Red’s third full day without a dri
nk, part of Roskin was on the verge of leaving the old man to suffer, but another part took pity. Back home, dwarves who lost control of their drinking were expelled from society, so Roskin had never seen the shakes. The abandonment from senses repulsed him, but the man was utterly defenseless, so the dwarf sat and held his arms to keep him from scratching more raw places and sang Kiredurkian lullabies to calm him. Eventually, the shakes lessened enough that Red fell asleep, allowing the dwarf to hunt and gather a supper of rabbit and berries.
Now, he wondered about Grussard, so he sat by the entrance and watched for any sign of the other’s coming. After cleaning the wound, he found his sword and whetstone and continued sharpening the blade. The stone was meant for the much smaller blades of his axe and dagger, so the sharpening was slow and painstaking, and after three days only one edge was sharp enough for battle. Even so, Roskin loved the sword more than any other weapon he had wielded. It was amazingly light for its size, and the balance was astounding. The guard, grip, and pommel were smooth and polished with no decorations or carvings. The guard curved at each end slightly towards the hands, and the grip was bound with dark leather that fit perfectly. The pommel was shaped like an almond with the point fashioned to the tang. On each side of the double blade, a pair of fullers ran nearly two feet of the length, and the metal from which it had been forged was dark gray.
As the sun neared the horizon, Roskin heard a pair of footsteps approaching from the southeast, and he gently placed the whetstone on the dirt and rolled onto his stomach. He crawled behind an outcropping and squinted towards the footsteps. He clenched the grip in anticipation as the cracking of twigs and shuffling of leaves grew closer. He expected to see soldiers emerge from the forest, and he was certain of an impending fight, but the faces that appeared astonished him.