by D. A. Adams
For a time after his banishment, he had been able to discern particular battles and had retraced them in his mind, finding mistakes in his bad decisions and admiring the good, but after awhile, the bad nights and bad memories from the plantation had taken over. Once he had begun drinking, he had given up the retracing and had become absorbed with self-pity and self-loathing. He had never been ashamed of his military career, even losing his army, but he had been bitterly ashamed of being a slave.
The wizard had shown him that revealing the shame was the only way to defeat it, and Crushaw had felt the burden lift in the field the day he had told the full story. As much as the herbs helped keep his nerves calm, setting aside the shame helped dampen the cravings.
Even so, Crushaw felt guilty for giving Roskin the maps because he knew that the soldiers of that castle were the best of the Great Empire. Emperor Vassa yearned for the ogre lands and the mineral deposits beneath the snow, and she sent the elite troops from every other division to Black Rock. The dwarf’s chances were slim at best.
Worry for another’s life was a new sensation for the old man. For seventy-five years he had never had a true friend, and other than an abstract sense of longing for his mother, he had never felt any kind of love for another person. In the evenings, he would find himself staring towards Black Rock and hoping to see the dwarf’s wagon appear on the horizon, and once Roskin had been gone for nearly four weeks, Crushaw’s anxiety rose even more. He was certain the dwarf was inside the fortress, a captive strapped to one of the torture racks.
At five weeks, Crushaw was busy picking tomatoes from one field and was too focused on getting the ripe fruit in the basket to scan the horizon. Because of his height, he was on his hands and knees, crawling to each vine stake and plucking off as many tomatoes as were ripe, and his back and legs burned with pain. The dust of the well-weeded rows clung to his sweaty skin, and his breathing was labored from the late summer heat. So it was no wonder that he missed the wagon when it did appear and made its way to the house.
He heard Kwarck calling for him and rose from the vines to go inside, figuring it must be lunch time, but as he neared the edge of the fields, he saw the wagon and quickened his pace. Inside, he found Molgheon at the table with Roskin’s sword before her. Confused, the old man sat beside her and lifted the sword.
“I found it in the wagon,” she said.
“Is he dead?”
“Probably not. He was taken by a slave trader.”
“Tell me what you know.”
Molgheon explained that after Roskin and Red had fled the logging town, she had seen the traitor Torkdohn, a known slave merchant, lurking near the human officers, and she had known that he was hunting Roskin. When the bloodied and defeated soldiers returned from chasing the pair, the old dwarf had gotten in his wagon and left town, heading east instead of south. Feeling a sense of duty to the dwarves the traitor had taken captive, Molgheon had tracked him to Black Rock but hadn’t known how to warn Roskin without getting caught herself, so she had watched helplessly as the soldiers captured him. When she found the wagon and saw the direction it had come from, she remembered the hermit who had nursed her husband as he lay dying from a stomach wound, and she made for the farm. When she finished her story, Kwarck put a hand on her shoulder.
“You are wise not to have gotten caught. Otherwise, we would have never known our friend’s true fate.”
“I agree,” Crushaw said. “Without you, we wouldn’t know where to look.”
“Look?” Kwarck asked, arching an eyebrow.
“We’re going to find him, right?”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Vishghu said from behind. “Your punishment is to stay here and work on this farm until you die. I have my orders, and I intend to obey them.”
“Then you’ll have to kill me, ogre. I owe that dwarf a debt you can’t understand.”
“Calm down, both of you,” Kwarck said sharply. “What makes you think you can rescue him?”
“I don’t know, but I have to try.”
“That dwarf is nothing but trouble, Red,” Molgheon said. “He deserves his fate.”
“Nobody deserves to be a slave. It’s a life you can’t fathom.”
Molgheon bowed her head, showing regret for having spoken so hatefully.
“You and I are old men, Crushaw. The orcs will kill us if we storm a plantation to free their slaves.”
“You
the Butcher of the Northern Plains,” Molgheon muttered, raising her head to look at him. “I thought that Roskin was crazy.”
“Yes, my friend. I am,” Crushaw said, meeting her eyes. Then, he turned back to Kwarck. “I will go alone if I have to, and I will die if I must, but I will not abandon him to them.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Vishghu repeated.
Crushaw stood and faced the ogre.
“Stop me,” he hissed.
“I’ll enjoy this.”
Kwarck stepped between them, and even though he was much smaller than both, his presence filled the room, and when he spoke, his voice shook the floor.
“In my house, there is no violence.”
He ordered Vishghu outside and Crushaw to sit, and like scolded children, they obeyed.
“Why do you want to save him?” Kwarck asked, his voice lowering to its normal volume and tone. “Why go to certain death?”
“I’m already near death, but what life I do have is only because he got me here. I can’t die knowing that I was afraid to face them for a friend.”
“If you do it,” Molgheon said, her eyes gleaming with the fire of a soldier who senses the coming battle. “I’ll follow you.”
“Will you help me finish the harvest?” Kwarck asked Crushaw.
“Yes.” Crushaw nodded vehemently to punctuate the word.
“Then, as your overseer, I will permit you to leave once the crops are in.”
They shook hands on the deal, and Crushaw thanked Molgheon for her allegiance. Before heading back to the fields, he grabbed a handful of nuts for lunch, and he ate them on the walk. As he made his way, he could hear Vishghu and Kwarck talking in another field, but their words weren’t discernable from that distance. When he reached the tomato vines, he got a new basket and found where he had stopped. Ignoring the pain in his legs and back, he got down on all fours and resumed picking. He worked steadily all day, barely stopping even for water, and by evening, he had cleared most of that field.
The next day Molgheon joined him, and they worked together on a patch of cucumbers that was ready. As usual, Vishghu worked in another field, but Kwarck stayed with her most of time, talking to her as a grandfather soothes an angry child. Throughout the harvest, Crushaw worked with an energy he had not known for several years, and from the pace he set, the others struggled to keep up. Because of him, they finished most of the early crop within three weeks, and Kwarck told him that he was free to find the dwarf. The nomads would be there soon to help with the late harvest, so the wizard could make do without him until they arrived.
Crushaw wasted little time preparing to leave. He packed enough food to get them near the slave blocks of Koshlonsen, the most likely place where the dwarf had been taken, and bade farewell to his healer. He and Molgheon double-checked their weapons and rode away from the house, but as they neared the gate, Vishghu blocked the path with her buffalo and from her feet readied her club.
“You are my prisoner, too,” she said. “And I do not grant you leave from your bondage.”
A wave of anger washed over Crushaw, and despite Molgheon’s grasp on his arm, he hopped down from the wagon and drew his sword. He walked deliberately towards the ogre and held her gaze as he neared. The old fire consumed him. While her face betrayed no fear, Vishghu’s legs and arms visibly shook. Even so, she held her ground.
“I haven’t tasted ogre blood for some time,” Crushaw nearly whispered at her. “But today I’ll have my fill.”
Vishghu gave a rumbling war cry and charged the old man, but
as she swung the club horizontally at him, he ducked the blow and saw his opening. Crushaw could kill her with a simple thrust to her exposed ribs and be on his way. He had done it thousands of times before without a second thought, but he didn’t want to kill her. She wasn’t his enemy. Instead of taking the kill shot, he countered by slapping her exposed face with the flat of his blade. She wound up for another swing, but Crushaw punched the pressure point of her right thigh with the pommel of his sword, and she crumpled to the ground. He kicked her club away and readied the sword at her throat.
“Countless of your kin have died before me, but you can live. Let me go to my friend.”
“Kill me, you black-hearted beast.”
“Don’t be stupid, ogre,” Molgheon called from the wagon. “We’ll be dead before the winter solstice. The orcs will do your job for you.”
Crushaw sheathed his sword and backed away from her.
“Whatever you think of me, I’m no coward. We will go to wherever the dwarf has been taken, and we will probably die.”
“I can’t let you leave,” Vishghu said, rising to her feet. “I have my duty.”
“Then, follow us,” Crushaw returned, climbing into the wagon. “Make sure that if the wilds and the orcs don’t kill us, we come back here.”
“The ogres and Kiredurks are friends,” Molgheon added. “You could be a hero if you save their heir.”
“I care nothing for glory,” Vishghu said.
“Good.” Crushaw said, releasing the brake and snapping the reins. “You’ll probably get killed, too.”
He whistled at the buffalo, and it moved from in front of the gate as the wagon approached. He snapped the reins again, and the horse quickened its pace as they moved through the gate and onto the old road south. Behind them, Vishghu mounted her buffalo and followed.
As they rode south, Crushaw and Molgheon discussed how to find out where Roskin had been taken. Crushaw wanted to find Torkdohn and extract the information any way he could, but Molgheon argued that finding the old traitor would take too long and that he probably didn’t wait for the final sale, anyway. Their best bet was to find the actual broker that had sold the dwarf. None of the party had actually been to Koshlonsen, but Molgheon argued that it couldn’t possibly be as difficult to find the stationary broker as it would be to find the moving Torkdohn.
“Very well,” Crushaw said. “But once we find Roskin, Torkdohn is next.”
“Once we find Roskin,” Vishghu said from behind. “You return to Kwarck.”
“Don’t worry, ogre. One way or the other, you’ll fulfill your duty.”
On the way to Koshlonsen, the party stopped in a remote dwarven village that was on the southeastern edge of what had once been the Ghaldeon Nation. Like Murkdolm, the village had once been a prosperous resting point, for it was evenly between Sturdeon and Koshlonsen, but since the Great Empire had conquered both regions, that trade route had withered to little more than an occasional traveler.
The village showed the effects of its decline, as most of its buildings were abandoned. The inhabitants who remained were rarely bothered by soldiers, and the population was mostly too old for slavery, so it was an ideal place for the three travelers to avoid being detected. Molgheon, using the silver coins Roskin had given her, requisitioned a tailor to create a general’s uniform for Crushaw and a tanner to fashion an ornate saddle for the horse. Crushaw directed the tailor on the outfit, remembering some of the dress uniforms visiting generals had worn at Black Rock.
While they waited for the uniform and saddle, Crushaw and Molgheon taught Vishghu better footwork for swinging the hammer. At first, the ogre resisted listening to the old man, but with Molgheon confirming everything he said, she eventually paid attention to his instructions. After a week, she showed considerable improvement.
The tanner finished the saddle first because the tailor had to get assistance from a blacksmith and most of the uniform had to be created from scratch. When it was finally ready, each agreed that it was perfect for getting them through enemy lands. Crushaw had never worn anything elaborate in his tenure, for he had considered himself more rank and file than officer, but once he tried it on, he liked the new uniform because it hid some of his aging features.
The boots were dark tan, and the pants were ash gray with mail cuisse protecting the thighs. His gambeson was also ash gray and displayed the insignia of the Great Empire. Beneath that quilted garment, he wore a waist-length mail hauberk with thick aketon to keep the metal from pinching his skin and to cushion any blows. On his forearms he wore only plate vambrace and leather gloves, and on his head he wore nothing, preferring to let his gray hair lay across his shoulders.
With the saddle and uniform, they continued to Koshlonsen, and because the road was so completely deserted, Crushaw left the gambeson and aketon packed in the wagon to keep them from getting too soiled. To break in the boots and season the armor, he wore those pieces above the clothes Kwarck had made for him and marched much of the day beside the wagon.
Each day they covered nearly thirty miles, and in the evenings while Molgheon prepared supper, Crushaw drilled Vishghu on defensive postures and blocks. The ogre proved to be a quick study, absorbing and practicing his teachings until her movements were second nature, and with each day, Crushaw became stronger and nimbler, the adroitness of his swordplay returning as his muscles remembered their actions.
“When we reach the plantation,” Crushaw said to both of his companions as they watched their campfire dance and spark. “We will be outnumbered five to one, counting the overseers and the orcs in the big house.”
“Five to one?” Vishghu asked, her voice uncertain.
“At least. That’s why I’ve been teaching you so much. We’ll have to be fast and efficient.”
“We have surprise on our side,” Molgheon added. “They won’t be expecting an attack, not from such a small force anyway.”
“But let’s not forget,” Crushaw continued. “That first we have to find the broker in Koshlonsen, and then travel across the wilds and into orc territory. We may never see the plantation.”
“Were you always this positive, Red?” Molgheon asked with a slight chuckle.
“I’m just a realist. I know where we are headed.”
“You’re just like my husband. Up to the last, he considered every negative.”
With that, the three companions stretched out and went to sleep one by one. They were two days from Koshlonsen, and from this point forward, they would be surrounded by the enemy. Crushaw fell asleep last, his mind drifting back to his boyhood in the sugarcane. He had spent a lifetime trying to escape the orcs, and now, near the end of his life, he was marching back to them. He drifted off with memories of the food trough and the morning horn skittering through his head.
Chapter 10
An Evil Place
Roskin had lost track of time. On the trip to Koshlonsen and at the trading block, he had counted each sunrise, but on the trip to the plantation, he had mixed up the numbers. Now that he was there, he had forgotten to even try. Time meant little as every day was an extension of the one before. He was trapped in a place and a life that none of his education or training or adventures had prepared him for. When he had left Dorkhun for the year’s isolation, he had held a vague notion of the orcs and their system of slavery, but he had known nothing of the reality.
He had learned that the orcs had different kinds of slaves for different purposes. The weaker and more docile slaves were used inside the house as servants. The stronger, more unrefined slaves worked in the fields as manual labor, planting, growing, and harvesting sugarcane and cotton for export, and some of the more intelligent slaves performed skilled labor as carpenters and blacksmiths. Finally, there were the leisure slaves who were trained to fight in the sporting rings of orc cities.
Most of these slaves were Tredjards who had been captured in battle. In return for not having to work the fields daily, they trained relentlessly for battles against other plantation
s. The battles were hand-to-hand combat with no weaponry or armor; the combatants simply beat each other to death to entertain the howling orcs. To ensure that the slaves would fight, the orcs restricted food enough to make them extra-aggressive but not so much as to make them weak. Then, on fight days, fresh meats were promised to the winning team, and the dwarves, driven mad from captivity and constant hunger, would turn on each other as ferociously as they had once fought their slave masters.
Roskin had not yet been to a battle, but there was supposed to be one within a moon cycle. None of the slaves could say exactly when. But in training with the crazed Tredjards, Roskin had experienced a new level of viciousness. Even just in practice, they tried to rip each other apart, but because of his training as a boxer and a swordsman, he had been able to defend himself well enough not to have gotten seriously injured. His nose had been broken, and three of his back teeth had been knocked out, but compared to some of the other injuries he had seen, those were nothing.
The leisure slaves stayed in their own quarters isolated from the rest. Their section was fenced off by an iron cage that had razor blades and spikes along the top, and no grass grew inside the fence. The ground had been churned into a rutted field of baked clay that stank from rotten food, blood, and feces. The sleeping quarters was a plain, rectangular building of one floor, and the single room was devoid of furnishings. The slaves all slept on the ground and took their meager food at the fence, for no orc dared enter the cage to feed them.