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

by D. A. Adams

  The other slaves lived in buildings near the fields, and in the mornings when the horn would blow, Roskin would watch the still exhausted dwarves, elves, and humans trudge to the fields or the workrooms or the main house. Any who didn’t meet the horn’s call within five minutes was dragged from the building, tied to a post, and lashed for several minutes. The overseer who dealt the blows showed no mercy, and in fact, pleas, cries, and whimpers only seemed to fuel his rage. Roskin couldn’t watch those beatings.

  The orcs themselves were divided into a strict hierarchy. Those at the top lived in the main house and handled the business end of selling goods and trading slaves. Beneath them were the warriors who guarded the main house and squelched any attempt at slave revolt. Then came the field overseers who directly supervised the slaves, and below them were the orcs who did manual labor with the slaves. The lowest orcs were the most vile and ignorant creatures Roskin had ever known. Few could read or write, and none seemed to have a notion of the world beyond the plantation. While Roskin didn’t much like the Tredjards stuck in the pen with him, he despised those orcs that made daily trips by the cage and jeered at the warriors.

  Despite the grotesque ways of all orcs, the main house was a beautiful structure, and the juxtaposition of that beauty with the cruelty of the plantation was hard for the Kiredurk to reconcile. Still, he admired the craft of the house, which was built from oak imported from the forests of the Great Empire. It was three stories tall with a roof that sloped to a steep point, and the entire house, which was at least two hundred by one hundred feet, was surrounded by a railed porch. Thick pillars with ornate carvings supported the roof of the porch. The house was stained a walnut brown with dark trim, and the entire structure was surrounded by water oaks with thick moss hanging from the branches.

  Behind the main house, the soldier’s barracks was much less elaborate, being more functional than anything. It was also much smaller, about fifty by fifty feet and two stories high. To the best of Roskin’s reckoning, there were roughly a hundred soldiers who guarded the plantation, and at any given time about a third were asleep inside the barracks. Another third were at the main house, and the rest were stationed at various points around the entire plantation.

  Each day, Roskin studied the place for a chance to escape, and he was sure that if he could get out of the cage, he could get past the perimeter sentries. One evening, after the day’s fighting had ceased, he sat in the corner of the pen that he had made his own and counted the heartbeats it took for the sentries to make their rounds. On average, the field behind the pen was unwatched for thirty heartbeats every round the orcs patrolled. It was maybe a hundred yards across the bare field, and after that, the tall grasses of the savannah would be plenty of cover for him.

  As Roskin counted, a Tredjard who was especially vicious sat beside him and stared in the same direction. The dwarf’s cheeks were so sunken that he almost looked like a skeleton, and his eyes were far away. Roskin braced himself for an attack, but to his surprise, the dwarf spoke to him softly. It was the first time one of these dwarves had said anything to him outside of the training fights.

  “You fight well, tall one. With you, we’ll win some meat.”

  “We’ll see.” Roskin’s stomach burned for a full meal.

  “Winter is coming. We’ll need it.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “This is the third winter.” The Tredjard rubbed a scar above his left eye.

  “How many battles have you seen?”

  “Enough.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “You ask a lot of questions. Do you answer any?”

  Roskin shrugged.

  “Are you counting their rounds?”

  Roskin stared away, afraid to answer.

  “We all did it. We all planned our escape. Some even tried, but you can’t make it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Fight well and earn the meat. Fatten up.”

  With that, the dwarf moved back to his own spot between two others. The three stared at Roskin and had a heated conversation, but Roskin paid them little attention. He was sure the dwarf was wrong. He could escape.

  The evening horn blew, and the slaves began making their way back to their quarters. The field slaves sang as they walked, and on the surface, the songs sounded joyful that the day’s work was done, but to Roskin, a current of sadness flowed beneath that surface gaiety, and the sound was sadder than any song the masters of Dorkhun had ever sung. He listened to their songs and let the feeling wash over him.

  Sadness had become a constant emotion for the heir, replacing the dark fear with its persistency. Even though he knew he would escape the cage and find his way home, he missed his family and friends. He even missed Molgheon. He longed for a warm bath and the sounds of his sisters giggling from their rooms. He missed the open road and green grass for a bed, the dark of the underground and the smell of mold.

  But sadness wasn’t the only emotion he felt. Terror of the coming battle had been growing steadily. He was sure that even though he wasn’t completely green that kind of fight would overwhelm him. If the Tredjards who were supposed to be on his side were that vicious to each other, he didn’t want to know how gruesome the battle would get, and he steeled his resolve to escape before it.

  He had felt terror before. At the trading block, he had been paralyzed by it. Koshlonsen had been a horror of a city, with slaves kept in large pens like cattle and the auctioneers parading them in front of customers with nonchalance. Roskin had seen children ripped from their mothers’ arms and entire families separated. He had seen rebellious ones beaten into submission with thick whips and staves. And the noises had been crushing: the cries and pleadings of the slaves, the pitches and bids of the auctioneers, the grumblings and laughter of the orcs browsing, the creaks of wagons coming and going, the clang of the hammers shackling chains to the slaves. The entire din was a cacophony of evil and sadness, and Roskin would never forget that sound.

  Torkdohn had sold him to a broker as soon as they had arrived in town, and the broker put him up for auction the next day. He had been sold his first time on the block and had been transported along with five other slaves – two humans and three Tredjards – to this plantation. The others had been put in the fields, and Roskin caught glimpses of them from time to time. With each day their faces looked more gaunt and their shoulders more stooped.

  The evening meal, a slice of cornbread and a half rotten tomato for each warrior, was delivered, and the orcs who brought it were from the lowest ranks. They made a point of dropping the food on the ground at the limit of the dwarves’ reach beyond the cage, and the slaves had to stretch and strain to get the meager meal. The orcs laughed and spat at them while they struggled. After getting his food inside, Roskin was finished eating within a few seconds, and he wanted nothing more than to be back on Kwarck’s farm with the meats and nuts and vegetables.

  The sun had sunk to the horizon, and he had learned to get inside quickly. Otherwise, the mosquitoes would swarm him, and he would be left with a bad place on the floor to sleep. Inside, he found a decent corner and fought off two others who tried to take it from him. With nothing else to do, he fell asleep quickly and dreamed of a better place.

  As usual, he awoke to the horn and went to the cage to wait for breakfast. The sun was still an hour from rising, and the morning air was crisp on his cheeks and nose. The work slaves filed out of their quarters and went to their labor, and Roskin longed even for their fate. Anything had to be better than being stuck behind those bars with those Tredjards. The enormity of the day came down on him at once, and he began to pace around the pen, searching in vain for some weakness in the cage. If he could just get over the razors and spikes, he could reach the field.

  The lowly orcs brought breakfast and taunted the dwarves with the offering, but Roskin didn’t bother to eat. A plan had begun to form, and he didn’t want any distractions. He knew how to get over the wall and just need
ed the right opportunity, so he returned to his corner and watched the guards patrol in the darkness of pre-dawn. The lowly orcs had finished taunting and had returned to their labor, so the dwarves were alone. When the sentries reached the point where the field was not watched, Roskin sprang from his haunches and grabbed the nearest dwarf. The Kiredurk pressed the unsuspecting Tredjard above his head and tossed him onto the fence, impaling the poor dwarf in the spikes and razors. Then, Roskin used the dwarf’s writhing body to climb over the cage.

  When his feet touched the other side, he sprinted for the tall grasses, not looking back at the howling Tredjards who were also trying to climb the dead dwarf’s body. The Tredjards were too short to reach his legs and couldn’t get over, but Roskin didn’t care about them. He only wanted to be as far away from the plantation as possible.

  When he had first arrived, he and the other five had been taken to the blacksmith’s shop, where they were secured to a rail. Then, another slave branded each one on the hip, forever marking them as property of the Slithsythe Plantation. The smell of scorched flesh had made Roskin vomit before his turn, but when the metal seared his skin, the pain almost made him pass out.

  Now, as he ducked into the tall grasses of the savannah, he remembered the pain and the scar, and the memory fueled his desire. The thick grasses brushed against his face and bent with his weight, but their density and volume slowed him considerably. He heard animal noises from ground level, hissings and rustlings that were unfamiliar, but he was glad that he couldn’t see through the grass to know what kinds of beasts were making those noises.

  The ground was soft and springy but not very moist, so his feet, which were wrapped in thin, leather slippers, still had good traction. He ran several miles until he reached a shallow stream that divided the grasses from a forest of tall, thin pines. He had been heading due south, but at the stream he turned east and splashed up-current. He made his way against the stream for another thirty minutes, and by the time he turned back south into the forest, the sun had risen. With the land illuminated, the recklessness of his flight came into focus. He had no idea where he was or how to get out of orc lands. He was surrounded for many miles in every direction by enemies who would either kill him for sport or capture him for reward. As he ran on through the forest, he tried to sort out a new plan for staying free, but his mind was fuzzy with fear and hunger, so he decided that his first task was to find some kind of meal.

  He was a good enough hunter that if he had possessed a bow or a spear or any kind of sharp tool, he could have killed countless forest animals, but having nothing and being weak made the task more difficult. He scavenged for nuts and berries, but in the late fall, they were scarce and in poor condition. What little he did find hardly made a dent in his hunger. When he was on the verge of exhaustion and almost ready to collapse on the forest’s floor, he caught glimpse of a small cabin ahead. He crept closer, scanning every direction for any sign of an orc, and when he felt confident that the place was clear, he slipped inside.

  At once, he recognized the place as a hunter’s shelter, not a permanent residence, so he quickly searched the cabinets and found several sealed glass jars of various vegetables. He dislodged the wax seal on a jar of green beans and shoveled several handfuls into his mouth, soaking his beard with juice as he chewed greedily. After eating the entire jar, he scoured the rest of the cabin for gear and found a leather sack, a pair of boots that fit better than the slippers, a rusted but functional knife, a set of clothes that fit, and a blanket.

  After changing clothes and lacing the boots, he packed as many jars as would fit into the leather sack, stuffed the blanket on top of them, and tucked the knife into the blanket. Then, he slung the pack over his shoulder and left the cabin, feeling sure that at any moment an orc was going to appear and take him back. With a full belly and the heavy pack, he moved much more slowly, but his head was more clear, which allowed him to start a plan. He would have to travel all day and night at first to get as far away as possible, but then he would travel just at night and hide wherever he could during the day. From his geography lessons, he knew major landmarks of the orc lands, and he would travel east across the hills and into the Sojntejein Mountains until he reached the Kryrstoshian River. When he reached it, he would turn northeast and head for the lands of the Marshwoggs, a peaceful people who should give him asylum.

  Without more detail, that was his best hope, so he marched through the forest and listened intently for any sounds of pursuit. For most of the day, nothing followed him, but as evening dimmed the forest and shadows grew long, the dark fear began to resurface in his mind. He hadn’t felt it since Black Rock, and at first, the feeling was odd and haunting, a sensation like staring at an unknown picture that was eerily familiar. As it grew, he remembered Kwarck’s explanation of it and concentrated on the feeling until an image came to him. He saw clearly a pack of dogs sniffing his trail through the woods beyond the hunting cabin, and behind the dogs, several heavily armed orcs marched in tight formation.

  By his reckoning from the image, he had a fifteen minute lead, but since he was moving more slowly, he would be caught soon. If he tossed the food, he could probably outrun them but might struggle to find more. If he kept the food, he would have to fight, and with only the dull knife, he didn’t like his odds. He tried to quicken his pace, but the sack was awkward and made him lean more towards the shoulder it was slung over. From being off-balance, he stumbled on fallen branches and slipped on dry pine needles, and the missteps cost him more time than he gained. But he had decided to keep the food and deal with the dogs and soldiers when they caught him. He had been too hungry for too long.

  The dark fear continued to grow as twilight faded to night, and he could hear the dogs sniffing and panting behind him not more than a few hundred yards. They would catch him within the hour, so he prepared a strategy for dealing with the dogs. Back home, dogs were used solely to guard premises and to locate victims buried in cave-ins, so he had little knowledge of how they hunted and attacked prey. To him, his best bet was to find a fallen branch that could be used as a club, so he scoured the forest floor before him for one that looked sturdy enough to work. He tried several, but each one was too rotten, breaking and crumbling as he smacked it against the ground. Finally, he found one that was thick and solid.

  He made his way to a mound, the highest ground he could reach, and laid the pack against a pine. He tucked the knife into his belt and readied the club. The dogs came up the mound after him and fanned out around him. One dog crouched before him and barked in a shrill, annoying yelp, and Roskin swung at it with a steady well-aimed blow, but the dog jumped back just out of reach. As Roskin was fully extended, a dog to his right bit into his side, and as the dwarf turned to hit that one, it let go and jumped back and another bit his other side. Within moments, the dogs had him on the ground, and if the orcs had not called for them to heel, they would have ripped him apart. With that, his flight from slavery was over.

  Chapter 11

  Evil Blade

  Crushaw walked the streets of Koshlonsen in search of the brokerage house that had sold Roskin. He wore his sword in the open, letting the brokers know its danger, and he carried himself as one who has forsaken all fears of death, his eyes cold and unyielding, his face hard like unquarried stone. On the streets that day, any who glanced his way saw the calculating, ruthless warrior he had once been.

  Molgheon and Vishghu had remained camped outside of town and well off the road. If either of them was spotted in this area, they could be captured as slaves and sold, even with Crushaw wearing the general’s uniform. He had no papers, and they bore no brands, so any could claim them as property.

  For his part, Crushaw was glad to be alone in the city. He felt free and unencumbered. For his entire life, he had been under someone’s charge, and at seventy-five, he liked not having to report to anyone. Still, being around so many orcs made him uneasy, and every time he made eye contact with one, he had to resist the urge to draw
his blade.

  Koshlonsen was originally an elfin city at the southern border of the Koorleine Kingdom, and some of the original woodcraft remained on the oldest buildings. When Theodore the Daring of the Great Empire had conquered the Koorleine elves three hundred years before, he had burned most of the elfin cities, leaving little as proof of their existence. But he had captured Koshlonsen and turned it into a trade route between the humans and the orcs; and as the Great Empire became more and more involved in trafficking slaves, it became the hub of the industry, and the free population became mostly orc. Beyond the southern walls were the wilds, broken and arid lands of poisonous beasts and lethal heat, which kept runaway slaves from getting far. To the north, the Koorleine Forest stretched for a hundred miles, and the trees of the ancient woods were so wild and thick that those who strayed from the main roads were rarely seen again. Some whispered that deep in the forests the last of the elves had begun to rebuild, but not even the most skilled soldiers could scout the area to learn the truth.

  While the older parts of the city were beautifully crafted by elfish hands and had been built to survive epochs, the newer areas built by humans and orcs were crude, wooden structures thrown together as quickly and cheaply as possible. Few of those buildings had any adornment, and most were a weathered gray. Black smoke billowed from the smokestacks of industrial shops, and a layer of soot clung to every smooth surface. After just a few hours in the city, Crushaw felt the grime on his bare face and neck.

  As he moved from one brokerage house to another, the old man’s war-hardened heart pitied the slaves. The newly captured had a countenance of terror that touched him, and the lifelong slaves moved with an all-too-familiar slouch and shuffle. Fifty-five years removed from his own bondage, he recognized the defeat in their eyes as if he had never left. And like Roskin, the dissonance of the slave blocks was a noise he would never forget.