The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 01 - The Brotherhood of Dwarves

by D. A. Adams

  Bordorn, whose brown beard hung to his chest, stepped out of the forest first, followed closely by Molgheon. Both dwarves stooped from massive packs, and they trudged up the hill to the mine. Roskin sprang from his hiding place and rushed down the hill. He made them stop and unfetter their packs, insisting that he would carry the supplies the rest of the way. The two unhooked their straps without much argument, and Roskin gathered the packs in separate hands and ascended the hill, grunting and puffing from the load. Bordorn and Molgheon followed without speaking. When they reached the mine entrance, Roskin set the packs against the wall and turned to Bordorn.

  “What on earth?” he asked, grabbing his old friend and hugging him.

  “I’ll explain later. Let me rest a bit, first,” Bordorn said, returning the embrace.

  “Grussard’s dead,” Molgheon said in her usual reserved tone.

  Roskin stepped back from Bordorn and turned towards her.

  “A spy saw you leaving his shop. They hung him once the fire was out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Roskin said, lowering his eyes.

  “Where’s Red?”

  Roskin pointed into the mine, and Molgheon took a bottle of his whiskey from one of the packs and a lantern from the other. She lit the wick and disappeared into the darkness. Bordorn sat in the dirt and stretched his legs. After picking up the whetstone, Roskin sat across from him and resumed sharpening the sword. The sound of stone on metal rasped rhythmically, and Molgheon and Red’s conversation drifted up from the mine. After a few minutes, Bordorn began his explanation.

  A day or two before Roskin left Dorkhun, his stepmother had sent word to Bordorn that the heir would be seeking his inner peace and that she feared he would be traveling to the Loorish Forest. He should be coming to Bordorn for aid, and she wanted to formally request assistance beforehand. When Roskin never arrived, Bordorn received leave to find his friend and fulfill his obligation to King Kraganere for granting refuge to his family. He reached Murkdolm just before the fire erupted and met Molgheon, who told him that Roskin had been there but was gone and that the soldiers were searching for him. Grussard came into the tavern while Bordorn was there and explained about the plan to meet at the mine. When Grussard was arrested outside his shop and hung that night, Molgheon knew they would come for her shortly, so she took the supplies Grussard had already gathered, including Red’s whiskey, and she and Bordorn sneaked out of town to find Roskin.

  “A fine mess you’re in,” Bordorn said. “Those soldiers are hot that you killed one of their own.”

  “Killed? I didn’t kill any of them.”

  “We heard you beheaded one on the bridge.”

  “Barely a scratch.”

  “Well, one is dead, and an entire regiment has been dispatched to find you.”

  “Red’s got it bad,” Molgheon said, emerging from the dark. “I knew he’d be needing something.”

  After extinguishing the lantern, she went to one of the packs and produced a loaf of bread and some cheese, both of which she shared with Bordorn. Roskin gave them his leftover rabbit and berries, and the two ate supper in silence. Roskin continued sharpening his sword and managed to get another small length to his satisfaction. After supper, Molgheon got out a bottle of wine and poured three tankards full.

  “This was my husband’s,” she said. “I wasn’t going to let them have it, so you boys enjoy.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Roskin said.

  “Too kind,” Bordorn added. “But let’s take it easy tonight. We need to get moving early.”

  “Where are we going?” Roskin asked, wanting to move towards the fortress and the Brotherhood.

  “I’ve got family to the east,” Molgheon said between sips of wine. “They’ll welcome us.”

  “That leads us deeper into the enemy,” Bordorn said. “We should loop back to the free lands.”

  “Whatever we do, Red won’t be able to walk for a few days,” Molgheon said. “Those shakes will hold on awhile, even with a taste to ease them.”

  “I stole a horse and wagon,” Roskin said. “The horse is grazing on the other side of this hill, I hope. That could carry him.”

  “Do you know how to drive a rig?” Bordorn asked Molgheon, who nodded. “Then, we’ll walk behind and let you stay in the wagon.”

  “Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I can’t walk.”

  “I didn’t mean…” Bordorn tried to explain.

  “I fought with the last of the Resistance before you were born. I’ve marched through snow up to my waist and in mud almost as deep. I can walk just fine.”

  Roskin was surprised and pleased by the sudden rush of emotion from the barkeep, but he dared not say as much aloud.

  “You drive the wagon, your highness,” she added.

  “Let’s find that horse,” Roskin said. “Or we’ll all be walking.”

  The three left the mine and hiked around the hillside. Night was upon them, and Molgheon and Bordorn struggled to follow Roskin in the faint light, his vision in the dark being immensely superior. Several times one of them had to slow him for fear of losing the way, and when they reached the open pasture where Roskin had left the horse, he was the one who spotted it. He and Bordorn tiptoed down the slope to keep from startling the animal, which was lying in a stretch of lush grasses, but as they neared it, the horse actually rose and moved to Roskin.

  “It likes you, Pepper Beard,” Bordorn said, walking closer to the horse. He reached out and patted the flank but quickly pulled his hand back. “But who knows why? Did you wipe down and brush this horse after running it so hard?”

  Roskin shrugged.

  “Kiredurks,” Bordorn muttered, grabbing the bridle. “Let’s clean you up, sweet lady.”

  They climbed the slope back to Molgheon, and then returned to the mine’s entrance. At the opening, Molgheon relit her lantern and went to check on Red, and Bordorn found a cloth to clean the horse. As he rubbed away the layer of dirt and dried sweat, he explained the necessity of grooming. Roskin stood with his head bowed like a child who was being scolded but soaked up the information. He didn’t like the thought of intentionally hurting a beast through ignorance. While he liked to hunt and fish as much as anyone, he also tried to respect life, which was why the thought of the dead soldier nagged him. He had only meant to stun the man. Killing the orcs had been traumatic, but the hatred between dwarves and orcs was such he could dismiss that. Killing anything else that wasn’t meant for food was hard for him to handle. After years of dreaming of adventure, he couldn’t reconcile the feelings.

  When the horse was clean, Bordorn tethered it to a metal hook in the mine’s wall. Then, he and Roskin unpacked two more sleeping bags and prepared camp. When Molgheon returned again, the three looked over Roskin’s map and agreed on a route back to the free lands. They would travel north across the rolling hills of Rugraknere, a small nation of Kiredurks who lived above ground. Most of the citizens were either the descendants of or themselves outcasts from the underground kingdom, but Roskin was sure he could pass through those lands unharmed because of his beard. When they reached the ogres’ lands, they would turn west, following a trade route, and go to the eastern outer gate of Roskin’s kingdom.

  The next morning, Roskin and Bordorn pulled the wagon from its hiding place in the mine and loaded the supplies on one side of the bed. Then, they helped Red into the other side, where he curled up with his new bottle and fell back asleep. Bordorn re-hitched the horse and guided it out of the mine. True to her word, Molgheon walked behind the wagon, her short bow in her left hand and a quiver on her left hip. After slipping the whetstone inside his purse, Roskin moved the dagger and sheath to his right side and attached the sword to his belt with a thin leather strap on the left. Then, he looked around the mine one last time, checking for anything the group might have forgotten. When he was satisfied that nothing had been left, he strode after the horse and wagon that was moving northeast towards the road to Rugraknere.

  It took two days
to reach the road, which had been the trade route between Sturdeon and Grefdoughn but was abandoned after the conquest. When they did reach it, they realized that the going would be no faster on this road than cross-country, for most of the stone blocks had been quarried to build farmhouses or watch towers. The patches of stone that had been left were mostly cracked and uneven, and the wagon would never last if they tried to follow the path, so they stayed on the grass and rutted ground and moved slowly along the rolling foothills. For the most part, they traveled during the day and slept in shifts at night, and for the first few days they had fair weather and no company. Within a week, Red had recovered enough to walk for brief periods, and he spent most of his time either thanking Roskin for saving him or telling the others about the episode, which grew more elaborate with each telling.

  After the week of nice weather, their luck gave out, and showers came and passed and came again for six days. The ground softened to slop, and while Red drove, Roskin, Molgheon, and Bordorn spent as much time pushing the wagon as walking. Their tempers and conversations became short, and all of them wanted nothing more than a dry bed and a change of clothes. Instead, they moved fewer than five miles a day, which worried Bordorn and Roskin, who both knew that by now someone had caught their track. In the dark hours, they discussed their fears and considered leaving the wagon, but both dwarves knew that Red would never make Rugraknere without the horse.

  When the rain finally cleared, they were still a full day from the nearest village, and the ground was practically impassable for the wagon, but one bit of fortune did turn their way. The road itself became less and less quarried and was almost smooth enough to drive. Roskin scouted ahead and found that they were within half a mile of being able to use it, and their spirits rose. The dwarves doubled their efforts, and Red got down from the seat and led the horse by the bridle. In an hour, they reached the usable surface, but the dwarves were too exhausted to celebrate. They collapsed on the stones and rested, while Red prepared a lunch of leftover deer and seeds. The old man served them and cleared the mess, and within another hour they were ready to continue. As Roskin helped repack the cooking equipment, the dark fear suddenly flooded him, and he dropped a skillet, drew his sword, and called to the others.

  “What’s wrong?” Molgheon asked, readying her bow.

  “Something’s coming.” He backed towards the wagon.

  “Humans,” Bordorn said, drawing his short sword. “I just smelled them.”

  Red climbed into the seat and reached for the reins, but Molgheon, who was too far from the wagon to leap, called for him to wait. A dozen soldiers broke across the hill and flared out as they approached the wagon at a trot. When they were within ten feet, they halted and readied their swords in high guard stances. The captain stepped closer and pointed at Roskin.

  “Give us this one, and you’ll only face hard labor, not our blades.”

  “Shove it,” Molgheon said before spitting at his feet.

  “Pity, barkeep. We always liked you.”

  “Just take me,” Red said, turning in the seat to face the soldiers.

  “Don’t worry, General,” the captain replied. “You’re going back.”

  “General?” Roskin said, glancing over his shoulder at Red.

  “Come on down, so you don’t get hurt while we slice these mules.”

  “I can’t do that,” Red replied. “They’re my friends.”

  “For pity’s sake, Crushaw, at least act like a man.”

  “Crushaw?” Roskin repeated, looking back at the captain.

  “Last chance, old…”

  The captain never finished the sentence, for Molgheon shot him through the throat. He flailed for the arrow for a moment, and then slumped to the ground. Roskin and Bordorn charged the stunned soldiers on either side of him and hacked their unguarded legs from beneath them. Molgheon dove behind a wheel and fired another arrow, which struck the nearest soldier in the forehead just below his helmet. The remaining eight gathered their wits and attacked. The three near Molgheon charged her, but she rolled beneath the wagon and came out the other side. Roskin ran a few yards away from the melee, and then turned to meet the rush of two soldiers. He parried the first’s stroke and dove away from the second’s. Bordorn stood his ground against the remaining three and killed the closest one with a quick thrust to the man’s abdomen just below his coat of plates and through his mail. The other two were not so slow, and one brought his sword down across Bordorn’s right arm, partially cleaving it. The other stabbed him in the left shoulder, and the dwarf collapsed.

  Molgheon shot another soldier as he rounded the wagon’s rear, and she turned to face the other two coming from the front. One was almost on her, but she pulled a dagger and stabbed him in the gut. The other never reached her because Red caught him around the throat with the reins and strangled him. Down the hill, Roskin was dodging thrusts and cutting blows, but his legs were growing tired, and he knew he didn’t have much time left. He caught one across the arm with a quick draw, and that soldier dropped his sword and grasped for his arm as he fell to his knees. The other three kept coming, trying to encircle him, but the dwarf managed to stay just beyond their reach.

  Molgheon shot one in the back, and as he fell, the other two paused long enough for Roskin to attack. He thrust one in the thigh and retreated as the other swung wildly at him. The soldier didn’t get a second swipe because an arrow struck between his shoulder blades and he died quickly. Roskin finished off the two he had wounded but then saw Bordorn on the ground with Molgheon kneeling over. He rushed to his friend who barely clung to life.

  “We have to stop this bleeding,” Molgheon said calmly. “Give me your belt.”

  She tied a tourniquet around his elbow, cinching as hard as she could, and on his shoulder she pressed her hand tightly. After laying his sword across his friend’s waist, Roskin lifted Bordorn from the bloody ground and carried him towards the wagon, with Molgheon trying to keep pressure on the shoulder. As they neared the wagon where Red was ready to snap the reins, an arrow whistled over their heads.

  “Archers,” Molgheon hissed. “Move it.”

  As Roskin hoisted Bordorn onto the bed, a blinding pain ripped through his back, and he fell forward against the wood. He tried to crawl in beside his friend, but the pain burst again in his shoulder, knocking him to his knees. The wagon’s bed slipped from his fingers, and the soggy ground smacked him on the chin. He tried to stand, but his body was frozen from the two molten embers, and Roskin passed out from the pain.

  Chapter 5

  Into the Land of the Outcasts

  Roskin awoke in a soft bed with the scent of powder all around him; his dreams had been strange and much too long – mice gnawing on his back and shoulder and a sprite from the deep washing his beard. It was dark in his room, that familiar black darkness of the underground, and he was glad to be home. He wanted to get out of bed, but his limbs were heavy and stiff from sleep, so he lay still and listened to the darkness. Across the room, labored breathing ground in and out, in and out. It was strange for someone to be sleeping in his room, and he was curious to learn who it was.

  He tried to sit up, but a sharp tightness in his back and shoulder froze him, so instead he turned his head in that direction. As he stared across the room, his grogginess lessened, and he realized that the darkness was not that of underground but of thick blankets covering the room’s windows. He could just make out a faint iridescence where blanket and sill were not flush. The realization broke his heart, for he understood that he wasn’t in his bedroom in the safety of Dorkhun, and his stepmother and siblings weren’t down the hall waiting to have breakfast with him. Even worse, he had no idea where he was or how he got there.

  He remembered the scuffle with the guards of the southern gate and the fight with the orcs. Torkdohn, the tavern, Molgheon, and Grussard all came back slowly. The blacksmith was dead because of him. He remembered Red and the bridge, how they barely escaped capture, and the wagon in the mud, how
they struggled to push it to the road. Then, there was a fight, and he had killed several men. No, only two or three. Molgheon and Bordorn had killed the rest, but Bordorn had fallen and was bloody all over. He had wanted to get Bordorn to safety, but then his memory became a blur of images that wouldn’t quite connect. There were a voice shouting and a lot of bouncing. Then, he was drifting through his kingdom, mapping it all again. At some point, a beautiful woman was bathing him and pouring liquid in his mouth, and he wanted to marry her. Maybe that was the story his father used to tell about his elfish mother. He didn’t know.

  He tried to call out, wanting anyone to come to him and tell him if Bordorn was alive or if Red and Molgheon had escaped, but his mouth and throat were too dry. He could summon only a whisper. He moved his right arm above his head and felt along the mattress’s edge for something to bang, but the wall was stone, and he couldn’t reach the bed’s rail. He reached out from the bed and felt a small stand beside it, so he grabbed an edge and pushed as hard as he could. The stand rocked just enough to send something clattering to the floor. A moment later, footsteps neared the door, and suddenly light flooded the room, causing him to shut his eyes and roll his head away.

  “He’s awake,” a female voice said.

  “Water,” he said, hardly more than a murmur.

  “Fetch him a drink,” a male voice said. Roskin didn’t recognize either one.

  “Can you see?” the male dwarf asked, picking up the metal pan that had fallen from the stand.

  “Too bright,” Roskin answered.

  “Good. That’s good. You are very lucky, young Tredjard. Those arrows almost took you.”