by D. A. Adams
Crushaw didn’t answer. Instead, he climbed into the seat and released the brake. Vishghu mounted her buffalo and rode alongside the wagon as they made a wide arc around the city. When they reached the southern side, they found the Crimson Road and started into the wilds. Throughout the night, the temperature dropped to freezing, and disturbances of predators taking down prey rolled across the desolate land.
“Be on your best guard,” he cautioned. “You’ve never seen the likes of what lurks out there.”
“I guess you have,” Vishghu snorted.
Crushaw didn’t respond.
“Just keep alert,” Molgheon said sharply.
They traveled for several miles, and the horse and the buffalo grew more and more uneasy the deeper they went. For nearly half an hour, Crushaw had noticed a beast stalking them from their left. He couldn’t be sure, but its outline was like a sand lion, the deadliest predator of the wilds. On his previous journey across, none of those beasts had attacked him, but he had seen them take down prey. It was a sight to behold. Many stood six feet tall at the shoulder and their paws were as large as a dwarf’s torso. Their claws were as long as daggers and could rip flesh as well as any blade. They lived in prides of twenty to thirty, with a dominate male that hunted for the rest.
“Whatever happens,” he whispered to Molgheon. “Go to Roskin.”
“What’s out there?” she asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“A nightmare. Warn the ogre.”
Crushaw drew his sword and held it with his right hand while he continued to hold the reins with his left. Molgheon motioned for Vishghu to ride closer to the wagon, and the ogre, a look of terror on her face, obeyed the dwarf’s request.
“When it attacks, stay with the horse. Others creatures might come.”
He handed the reins over to Molgheon and readied himself for the charge. As he had always experienced in battle, his pulse dropped and a sense of calm washed through him.
The sand lion burst from the darkness with a speed that defied its massive size. It sprang towards the wagon, its mouth agape for the attack, and luckily for the travelers, its first pounce struck the wagon’s left wheel. The wood cracked and snapped and the wagon tipped on its side from the impact. Crushaw leapt from his seat as the wagon flipped and caught hold of the lion’s coarse mane with his left hand. He pulled himself onto its back and stabbed it with his sword. The lion’s thick muscles kept the blade from penetrating deeply, and it rolled onto its side to rid itself of the rider.
Crushaw rolled himself, just clearing the beast’s haunches, and jumped to his feet. The lion came to all fours and charged him. It swung one of its paws, but the warrior coolly slipped aside of the blow and stabbed again. His blade barely pierced skin, and the lion sprang at him, its front legs and claws outstretched. Crushaw tried to sidestep again, but the length of the lion’s leg struck him, knocking him backwards. The lion was over him before he could recover, and it brought its mouth down to catch his throat, but he managed to raise his left arm to block the bite. The lion’s teeth hit against the plate vambrace, and the metal gave but did not puncture. The lion released its grip, and its hot breath was right in the warrior’s face.
Suddenly, the lion gave a sharp yelp and fell to its side. Vishghu stood over it and quickly brought her club down on its head to end the fight. Crushaw lay still for a moment, trying to catch his breath, but the ogre reached down and grabbed his shoulder.
“We have to get moving,” she said, pulling him to his feet.
“This dwarven armor is well-made,” he said, holding up his arm to look at the teeth marks. “My arm should be gone.”
At the wagon, Molgheon had managed to unhitch the horse, and other than being scared, it was unharmed from the attack. The wagon, however, was beyond repair. Crushaw and Vishghu gathered the equipment and repacked what had been spilled. Then, they loaded as much as they could onto the buffalo and horse. The rest they divided between the three of them and continued on their way.
Sunrise was not far away, and the southeastern horizon began to lighten. Slowly, the light increased, revealing the cinnamon landscape of rocky dirt and sparsely scattered sagebrush. Tufts of thick, yellow grasses grew randomly along the uneven ground. As the sun rose, the predators retreated into hiding, and small herds of herbivores ventured out to graze. The Crimson Road, which got its name as much from the red blocks lining the path as from the blood that had been spilled along it, stretched to the horizon. At intervals, large bones of various animals could be seen along the roadside.
“We’ll sleep through the day,” Crushaw said. “It’ll be safer than at night.”
They found a good campsite near a sagebrush tree and tethered their animals to its trunk. Then, the travelers went to sleep until the early afternoon. When they awoke, Molgheon shot a wild hare, and Crushaw cleaned it for breakfast. Once the meal was complete, they continued on their journey and reached the first oasis well before sunset.
The Crimson Road had been marked by Theodore the Daring’s daughter, Penlough the Adventurer. She had believed in her father’s vision of connecting Koshlonsen to the orc lands and had gone into the wilds with two hundred veteran soldiers. It took two years to create a path that connected to several oases, and when she was finished, she returned to Koshlonsen with only twenty-five soldiers. The Crimson Road, however, proved to be a valuable route for both nations, and Penlough had been lavished with riches.
At the first oasis, the travelers filled their water-skins and drank heartily from the spring. The canopy of the oasis was dominated by fan palms with thick underbrush of squaw waterweed and arrowweed. The plants weren’t in season, which allowed the travelers to see well enough to avoid any creatures that might be lurking. Every year in the springtime, many orcs and humans were killed at an oasis by a snake or leopard curled up in the brush, but the travelers had no such ill-fortune and were able to continue on their way quickly.
That night passed without any major encounters, and they were able to sleep well the next morning. Again, they woke in the early afternoon, had breakfast of freshly caught wild game, and resumed the march. That evening, when the temperature dropped and heat escaped from the arid land, they encountered eight orcs traveling from the south. Crushaw had removed his gambeson after the fight with the sand lion and wore only the hauberk and vambrace, offering no insignia. As they approached, the orcs kept their hands on their weapons, and one spoke in poor common:
“What come you to land this?”
“Relax, friend, I am from the court of Emperor Vassa, may her life be long and sustained,” Crushaw returned in orcish.
“You speak our tongue well, stranger,” another orc said. “Almost native.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Answer the question,” the first orc said gruffly.
“I am traveling with my servants to the Slithsythe Plantation.”
“On what business?”
“That is between my emperor and the masters of that plantation.”
“Something’s not right about this,” a third orc said. “I know that dialect.”
“Me too,” a fourth added.
“It’s spoken in the northeast, at the Seershythe Plantation,” the third continued.
The name made Crushaw’s blood run cold, and he rubbed his hip instinctively. From his movement, the orcs drew their weapons. Crushaw froze at the sight of the orcish swords. For forty-five years he had charged into teeming lines of ogres, each wanting him dead. He had never been afraid of any enemy’s weapon, but the orcs’ swords sent terror through his heart. In that moment, images from the plantation flooded him, and he stepped backwards from them.
With her club, Vishghu smashed the chest of the orc nearest to her, and as it fell it tripped the one behind it. She killed them both before they could get to their feet. Molgheon shot the one closest to her and dove from the swipe of another. When she hit the ground, she rolled to her left, spilling several arrows, but she recovered in time to scurry
away from a third orc that tried to stab her. Crushaw saw the orc’s arm coming down, and he felt the metal strike his mail, but it was like a dream. The orc’s sword bounced off his left arm, bruising his bicep deeply, and he saw a second swing at his head, but his legs were like slabs, unable to move.
Vishghu thrust her club into the orc aiming at Crushaw’s head, and it collapsed with a grunt. Then, she hit the other orc with an uppercut from the end of her club. It staggered backwards, dark blood oozing from its gray mouth, and she finished it off with a whack to the side of its head. Molgheon had managed to get enough space between herself and the two chasing her to shoot one through the throat. It collapsed with a squeal that faded into a gurgle. Then, she shot the seventh orc in the chest, and it collapsed at her feet.
The eighth orc had turned and run as soon as it saw the ogre kill the first two. It was nearly a quarter mile ahead of them, and Molgheon reached for an arrow to shoot it before it got out of her range, but her quiver was empty. Vishghu turned and yelled at Crushaw to help, but the old man had slipped to his knees where he stared at the dying eyes of the orcs nearest to him. Vishghu got to her buffalo and gave chase.
“If he gets away, we’ll have an army waiting for us,” the ogre called.
Molgheon gathered her arrows and reloaded her quiver. Then, she went to Crushaw and stood beside him.
“You okay, Red?” she asked, putting an arm across his shoulders.
“I was scared. After all these years, they still scare me.”
“It’s okay. It happens.”
“Not to me.”
He stood, drew his sword, and stabbed the orc before him. It twitched for a moment and was still. Then, Crushaw went to each one and stabbed them all to make sure they were dead. When he finished, he dragged the bodies off the road with Molgheon’s help. Once the road was clear, he suggested that they try to catch the ogre in case she was having trouble. Molgheon agreed and got the horse, but Crushaw marched away swiftly, his long legs putting distance between himself and the dwarf. He didn’t want her to see his shame, and he needed time to clear his head. He had never frozen like that, had never felt fear before an enemy, but even after a lifetime of embracing death, he was still under sway of the lash. Since escaping, he had convinced himself that he had not been scared of them, but now he knew that nothing could be more untrue. They were still the masters and he was the slave. Running away from them had been easy, but raising his sword to strike them was a different matter.
Chapter 12
Death Nears
Even in winter, the afternoon temperature on the Slithsythe Plantation can reach the upper eighties, and the sun, while not as brutal as in summer, can still blister skin. As punishment for trying to escape, Roskin had been tied face-down to a wooden post and left shirtless throughout the day. Once his skin was sunburned, he was lashed until his pants were soaked with blood. At first, he gritted his teeth and tried to withstand the pain, but after a few strikes, he began to moan. Then, his moans became pleas and finally bellows for mercy. Every field-hand on the plantation was forced to watch, and while the overseer sweated and grunted from the exertion, the lowly orcs ridiculed the dwarf, tossing rotten food and dried feces at his face.
He was at the end of his threshold, unable to endure much more. Again, he called out for mercy, and as he did, he rose from the post like fog from a river basin. Like in a dream, he saw himself still tied down with the overseer lashing him mercilessly, but he was no longer there. He floated above the plantation and drifted north. For a moment, he thought he saw Crushaw, Molgheon, and Vishghu just beyond the plantation, but he was moving too fast to be sure. He raced across the wilds and over Koshlonsen. Then, he was skimming just above the canopy of the Koorleine Forest. The sounds of birds rose up and soothed him. Then, he saw an elfin settlement in the trees, and a part of him stirred much like when he had first seen the gates at the Kireghegon Halls.
Along the canopy, the main platform connected several large trees for nearly a hundred yards. The structure was wooden and stained to camouflage with the forest. Had he been on the floor, Roskin didn’t think he would have seen it. Small towers extended from the platform every twenty yards, and archers stood watch in each tower. Houses were built near the trunks, and their architecture was like that of Koshlonsen, simple and elegant, but every structure was built to blend with the trees.
He drifted beyond that place before he could see more, but there were other settlements throughout the heart of the forest. Most were obviously Koorleine, having clearly defined platforms and houses, but other settlements were much more crude and more a part of the trees instead of built onto them, more nests than buildings. Roskin had never seen anything like them, but he knew immediately that they were Loorish, the wild elves who had been driven from their own lands – his kin.
As he tried to absorb the designs and layouts of the different settlements, he suddenly dove into the forest and landed softly on the bough of a Loorish home. He sat in the crook of the bough and enjoyed the peacefulness of the forest for what might have been a minute or an hour. Time meant little. His wounds didn’t hurt, and the shame and loneliness of being a slave had melted away. He was simply Roskin, the core of himself.
A pair of hands began stroking his hair, but he didn’t jump from the sensation, for they were the softest touch he had ever felt. If he could have stayed on that bough and let those hands soothe him for the rest of his life, he would have done so. His need for battle and glory was gone, and the Brotherhood was just out of reach of memory. For the first time in many years, he was home.
He turned and looked at the Loorish elf who touched him so, and her smile embraced him warmly. Her intense features – the sharp nose, long chin, smooth cheeks, and thin lips – were as familiar as his own reflection, for he had seen them his whole life. The fierceness of her eyes had faded but had been replaced by hard-won wisdom and understanding. Her smile turned to tears as she wrapped her arms around him.
“My baby boy.”
“Is this a dream? Am I dead?”
“No, I heard your call.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You called for me.”
“But how did I get here?” he asked, looking around at the other nest-like homes.
“We are elves,” she answered. “Your life is bound to ours with a thread stronger than iron. If you listen, you can feel any of your kin.”
“Why didn’t you come?” he asked, his temper flaring. “All those years, you never heard me before.”
She took his face in her hands and held him tenderly.
“I heard you every time, but you didn’t need me until now.”
“I always needed you. You are my mother. I needed you my whole life.”
“No, you were always surrounded by love, and my place was helping others to these woods. This thing I’ve done, bringing you here, is a greater gift than you can know.”
“Am I free from them?”
“I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go back soon.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” she said. “You are dwarf and elf. Your ancestors endured much worse than this.”
“My body is broken,” he said, looking down at the thick underbrush. While the pain was gone, its memory made him shiver. “I’ve been broken.”
“Nonsense! What if your father heard that?”
Roskin shrugged.
“You are the Eleventh Heir to the Eighth Kingdom. Never forget that.”
He nodded and looked into her black eyes. She smiled again, but before he could reach out to her, he began to recede from the bough. In an instant, he was back on the post, needing water but finding himself alone. He wasn’t sure if his mother had been a delusion or not, but he closed his eyes and tried to remember her face and touch.
***
Crushaw sat beside the smoldering campfire and watched the embers fade. Molgheon had gone to scout the plantation, and Vishghu was dozing near the horse and buffalo. He had
been trying to understand why he was still terrified of the orcs, but nothing made sense. His heart had never known pity for a foe, and he hated orcs with fervor. He didn’t fear death, but at the moment those orcs had drawn their weapons, his terror had been acute. During his years in battle, he had always wanted an opportunity to face them in fair combat. He was ashamed that when the moment had come, he had not taken it.
Even worse, he could see in Vishghu’s eyes that she didn’t trust going into battle with him. Molgheon was not as judgmental about his cowardice, and he was sure that was because of her experience with war. She had seen her share of valiant dwarves lose their nerves on the field, but Vishghu knew little of war. In her eyes, Crushaw saw that she believed him to be a weakling and a coward, despite how easily he had disarmed her at Kwarck’s gate.
And Crushaw was unsure of himself. In less than twelve hours, he would be on the Slithsythe Plantation surrounded by orcs, and he didn’t know if he would charge into them with foolhardy bloodlust or freeze again. He wanted to believe that given a second chance he would draw his weapon and strike down as many as he could, but he was full of doubt.
Molgheon returned from her scouting and sat beside him. She took a stick and stirred the embers, and sparks popped and rose into the darkness. For a moment, flames washed through the nearly spent wood, but just as quickly, they died, and the coals glowed orange in the winter air.
“Roskin’s there. He’s lashed to a post and hurt bad, poor thing. But I’m afraid there’s bad news, Red,” she said. “This won’t be easy.”
“We knew that.”
“There’s a military outpost on the plantation,” she said, drawing an outline in the dirt. She sketched all the major buildings and the post on which Roskin was tied. “I saw at least thirty soldiers.”
He was silent, considering the makeshift map and calculating a strategy.
“I’ll still follow you in there,” Molgheon continued. “No dwarf should be left to them, but I don’t see a way to make this work.”