by D. A. Adams
“We can figure at least thirty more in the barracks, maybe more,” Crushaw said. “We have at least seven hours until sunlight. Get some sleep. You’ll be sneaking back in just before dawn.”
“I can slip by them easy enough,” she said.
“Good. Get some rest.”
She spread out her sleep sack and crawled inside, and within seconds, light snoring drifted out. Crushaw watched the rise and fall of her breathing, and a heavy sadness settled on him. He had led thousands of soldiers to their deaths, but now, he was leading himself to die at the hands of the masters he had escaped. The cruel irony of it was almost too much, but he would not abandon his friend. Even though it would cost him his own life, he would make sure the dwarf would not remain a slave to orcs. With that thought repeating in his mind, he fell asleep by the fire.
***
When Roskin awoke, he was no longer tied to the post. He had been moved to a cage near the barracks with a bucket of water and a tray of slop on the floor. Night had fallen, and he was still alone, except for the patrols around the perimeter and whatever creatures prowled the grasses at night. His back was raw and throbbed from the fresh wounds that stung almost as badly as the arrow punctures had. He struggled with the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, but they held firm, offering barely enough slack for him to eat and drink. Despite the tremendous pain, he was famished and would have gladly eaten a second helping.
As he ate, his thoughts turned to his adventures. He had been foolish to chase glory. His life, which now seemed to belong to someone else about whom he had read, had been good, but in his vanity, he had wanted more. Now, he resigned himself to this fate. He would do anything to never feel this pain again.
His thoughts drifted back even more. When he had been ten, he had watched his father and the Council banish a Kiredurk who refused to do his share of labor. The dwarf had lived in a township just outside of Dorkhun and came from a long line of expert miners, but he had no desire to follow in the family business. He had wanted to be a bard and travel the Kingdom singing tales of yore. Unfortunately, he had been tone-deaf and a poor musician, so no one had wanted him to play even in the lowest of taverns. Still, the dwarf had believed that because he had this passion for singing and playing, he shouldn’t have to do physical labor. Roskin vividly remembered the exchange between the dwarf and the Council.
“My boy,” King Kraganere had said. “You are not a musician. I can’t allow you to pursue this career. It’s not in the best interest of the Kingdom.”
“Your Excellency, I cannot subsist in the mines. I am an artist.”
“Do you paint or sculpt or write poetry?” Master Londragheon, a council member, had asked.
“No ma’am. I am only a bard.”
“But you can’t sing well,” she had returned. “You can’t earn a living doing something poorly.”
“I’m a poor miner, too.”
“Then, you do not have to be a miner,” the king had responded. “Find something else you do well.”
“But I love music.”
“Loving something is not enough to pursue a career. You must exhibit some capacity for it,” Master Sondious, another council member, had said.
“Perhaps you could try another art,” the king had offered.
“With all due respect, your Majesty, I don’t want to try anything else. I’ve found my love.”
“No one is telling you not to play music as a hobby, but you are not a professional,” Master Londragheon had said.
“My boy, we are not in the habit of expelling Kiredurks as young as you,” the king had said. “Will you return to your township and try something else? You can even stay in Dorkhun or any other city, but you cannot claim music as your profession. Will you try this?”
The young dwarf shook his head.
“Then you leave us no choice but to expel you to Rugraknere. Will you please reconsider?”
“I’ll leave. I’ll be a bard among the outcasts.”
“May your passage be peaceful. This consideration is closed,” the king had said, striking his silver hammer against a small bell.
The noise had hung in the air as the council members and the king filed out of the Hall. The young dwarf had stayed put, shuffling his feet on the polished marble floor. Roskin had stayed, too, feeling sorry for the exile. He had believed his father’s ruling unjust and had tried to get it reversed. He had believed that everyone should be able to choose any path they wanted, without interference from an outside force, but now, he saw that he and the young dwarf had been guided by immature indulgences.
“People should never feel above the whole,” his father had said. “And they should not be so blinded by vanity that they fail to see their limitations.”
His own vanity had brought him to this point, and he would probably never get to tell his father that he had finally learned the lesson of that banishment. The thought made him so wretched that he wanted to be done with it all. Eventually, he drifted back to sleep and slept fitfully till the sun rose. He had hoped to dream more about his mother, but his dreams had been disjointed and unmemorable. When he reawakened, the lowly orcs were feeding the leisure slaves, and their jeers were eerily welcome to him.
A handful of the lowly orcs came to his cage and tossed leftovers at him. He scooped up what he could and shoveled it in his mouth, and as he did, the orcs laughed and tossed rotten, greasy vegetables at him. For a moment, his temper flared, but he didn’t want to upset them and bring back the overseer’s wrath. He would gladly endure this mild ridicule to avoid that. The orcs soon grew bored with him and continued on to their day’s labor. Roskin picked the chunks of rot from his skin and pants and tried to get comfortable, but his back made comfort nearly impossible.
About an hour after breakfast, three soldiers came to his cage and opened it. Two stood on either side of the door with their swords trained on him, and the third stepped inside and hissed at him in orcish. Not knowing what was being said, Roskin stood and hoped to appear obedient. The orc pushed him out of the cage, and the hand on his back almost dropped Roskin to his knees. Grinding his teeth, the dwarf maintained upright posture and walked forward. The two orcs kept their swords on him the entire way to the leisure slave cage, where several other soldiers had already forced the slaves away from the entrance. After the shackles were removed, Roskin was shoved through the entrance and fell face first onto the hard ground.
The door slammed shut, and the orcs secured the lock within seconds. Roskin tried to stand, but the pain wouldn’t let him. He could see the Tredjards gathering around him, and he was sure that they were going to kill him as retribution for the dwarf he had impaled. He didn’t want to die without fighting back, but he couldn’t push himself up. Any movement from that position sent blinding pain through him, so he braced for the kicks and stomps that were sure to come.
“Welcome back, tall one,” the dwarf with crazy eyes said, kneeling in front of him. “I’m not usually one to say it, but I told you so.”
“Get it over with,” Roskin said. “I can’t fight back.”
“Get what over with?”
“Kill me. Just get it over with.”
“For what? For Sweeger?”
“Poor Sweeger,” another dwarf said. “He never saw it coming.”
Several other dwarfs murmured agreement.
“You did what you had to, tall one. We’ll not kill you for that,” crazy eyes said. “Let’s get you up, now.”
More gently than he would have believed from fighting with them, Roskin was lifted up and carried inside by the leisure slaves. They laid him on his side and covered his back with what pieces of cloth they had. He closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. While awake, he was aware of the dwarves huddled around him like his attendants had been whenever he caught a cold, and while asleep, he dreamed of the mines and of shimmering jewels in torchlight.
***
Crushaw woke three hours before sunrise, but he had never slept more than fou
r or five hours the eve of a battle. He cooked breakfast for all three, replaying his strategy and visualizing what he had to do. When the food was ready, he woke the others and, as they ate, explained his plan. Molgheon was to find a high point and cover them. He and Vishghu would enter as master and slave, and he would use the story of looking for his stolen dwarf. Of course, the orcs would deny having any such property, and he would raise enough of a ruckus to attract several soldiers. Then, he would start the fight, and Vishghu would get to Roskin and free him as fast as she could. Once the dwarf was unchained, Molgheon would slip out to the west, and Vishghu would take Roskin east. Crushaw would flee south, allowing Vishghu and Molgheon to loop back north and make for the wilds.
“What about you?” Vishghu asked.
“If I escape, I’ll catch up to you.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Your duty is fulfilled.”
“I’m not used to leaving soldiers behind, Red,” Molgheon said, staring hard at him.
“We both know the odds,” Crushaw said, not returning her gaze and falling silent.
Sunrise was still a couple of hours away, and the sounds of the wilderness punctuated his silence. Vishghu went to her buffalo and brushed its thick fur. The beast snorted and stamped from the pleasure. Crushaw sharpened his sword, and Molgheon waxed the string on her bow and checked her arrows. Nearly half an hour later, Crushaw broke their silence:
“You should get going. Find the highest point you can. Wait for my signal before you fire.”
“Fight well, Red.”
“Don’t get caught. Our success depends on cover. Protect Vishghu until she and Roskin are on their way.” When he finished with the instructions, he handed Roskin’s sword to her. “He will want this. Tell him to swing a sword, not sling an axe.”
After strapping the sword to her belt, Molgheon shook his hand and then disappeared across the grasses. Crushaw rose from his seat and moved to Vishghu. The ogre had finished grooming her mount and was packing camp.
“When I draw my sword, you head for Roskin. Don’t look back, and don’t stop.”
“I’ll do my part.”
“When you return to your people, tell them whatever you want about me.”
Vishghu turned and finished packing. Crushaw went to the horse and removed his uniform from the sack. He dressed slowly, making sure that his aketon and hauberk were secure and that the gambeson looked neat and official. When satisfied with the fit of the uniform, he spread out the knives and axes on the ground. Using long pieces of leather cord, he tied one knife to each boot along the inside of his calves. Then, he strapped the other two to the lower side of the vambrace on each forearm. The throwing axes were attached to the right side of his belt, and his sword was sheathed to the left.
“Keep your eyes to the ground. Slaves are never supposed to make eye contact with their masters. Always call me ‘master’ or ‘sir.’ Act like you’ve just been scolded by your mother.”
“I can do that.” Vishghu smiled in spite of herself.
“We only need to keep up the ruse for a few minutes, but if they find us out too early, the whole plan is shot.”
They snuffed out the embers of their fire, and packed the gear on the horse and buffalo. Then, they led the beasts to a sturdy swamp chestnut oak along the edge of a marsh. The tree stood seventy feet high and was two feet thick at the trunk. Its lowest branches were twenty feet from the ground and formed a low crown that spread out like syrup. During his long days in the sugarcane, Crushaw had looked at trees like these with the ache of a lonely sailor. Their distant shade hinted at a life of leisure. If he had come to this land under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed a day by this tree with a pretty companion and a soft blanket, but as it were, its shade would have to wait for him.
“If we’re lucky,” he said. “Our mounts won’t get eaten while we’re gone.”
“Maybe luck will fall our way.”
“Maybe.”
They secured the reins to the trunk and started towards the plantation, which was several miles away. The sun was still an hour and a half from rising, and Crushaw wanted to reach the perimeter just after daylight, so they walked at a crisp but measured pace. As they traveled, he silently rehearsed his part, imagining the conversation and thinking of insults and gestures that would attract soldiers without instigating violence. He wanted a crowd, but he wanted them to be passive until he drew his sword.
When the plantation came into view, his heart froze at the sight of the fields and the big house. Other than the barracks, the layout of this place was much like the Seershythe, and as he scanned the horizon, he instantly found where Molgheon had hidden, even though he couldn’t see her. A hundred yards from the barracks and the house, a water tower with a concave roof to collect rain stood fifty feet high. It was a perfect spot for an archer to shoot from without being seen. He also saw the post where Roskin had been tied, but the dwarf was no longer there. His heart froze again.
“They’ve moved him,” he said.
“Where to?” They were very near the watchtowers at the main gate.
“I don’t know. I don’t see him.”
“What should we do?”
“He’ll either be in the field hand shack or the leisure slave pen,” Crushaw said, pointing at both structures. “Look there as quickly as you can. I’ll lead the soldiers in the opposite direction.”
“Halt and state your business,” an orc hissed in orcish.
“I am an emissary from the Great Empire who seeks council with the lords of this house,” Crushaw responded in common, not wanting his dialect to ruin the disguise again.
“What did he say?” the orc asked its partner.
“Who knows? Call the Captain. He speaks the barbaric tongue.”
The first orc climbed down from the tower and scurried towards the barracks. It returned shortly with a squat orc that limped severely on its left leg.
“What about this?” the orc captain asked in poor common.
Crushaw repeated his statement.
“What business about this?”
“My business is with your lords.”
“Keep your eyes on them,” the captain said to the other two. “I’ll be back with the major.”
The captain limped to the big house and returned with a tall and slim orc who seemed more practiced in bookkeeping than warfare. The captain followed him at a close distance.
“How may I serve you?” the orc major asked in very fluent common.
“I have traveled from Koshlonsen in search of my property. If your graciousness permits, I ask admittance to your lands.”
“What property have you lost here?”
“A good servant was stolen from me, not by your hands, but by a rock-brain from the western mountains. I seek council with your lords to discuss this matter.”
“I can assure you, we have no stolen property here.”
“Of course not. You are honest business owners, as am I. That is why I intend to greatly compensate you for your expenses with this property, by authority of Emperor Vassa, may her shadow grow long in the east.”
“Follow me. You may speak with my lords shortly.”
Crushaw followed the orc major close enough to smell the sourness of its sweat. He had a knot in his stomach, and his heart thudded against his sternum. The self doubt was still there, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to strike at them when the time came. He kept thinking that none of them knew that he was once a slave and that by orcish law the brand on his hip meant he still belonged to the Seershythe. All that was keeping him from a return to bondage was a thin piece of cloth.
Then, another thought came to him. Nothing could ever keep him a slave. No orc or emperor or bottle would take freedom from him again. He was Crushaw, First General of Black Rock Fortress, Butcher of the Northern Plains, Evil Blade. These orcs might take his life, but before they could, he would show them fury they had never imagined.
“Wait here,” the or
c major said, stopping at the steps.
Crushaw nodded at the major and turned to Vishghu:
“It’s almost time,” he whispered. “When I start talking to the lords, you start slowly moving towards the field-hands’ building.”
Vishghu nodded slightly.
The major returned shortly, leading two orcs that were several years older than Crushaw. Their bent frames moved unsteadily to the top of the steps, where they stopped to wait for Crushaw to address them. As was orcish custom, strangers were never allowed inside the big house on their first visit. Orcs trusted few of their own race, and even fewer of others. Crushaw, blatantly dropping the courtesy he had shown the major, insulted the lords by not moving to the second step. Instead, he stayed on the ground and spoke much too loud.
“You have in your possession a dwarf that rightly belongs to me.”
Vishghu took a step back from Crushaw, but the orcs didn’t notice her, for their attention was riveted on him.
“All of our slaves bear our brand,” the nearest lord said, his tone showing his disdain for the human. “We comply with all orcish laws.”
“He has a dark beard with white streaks and a mangled ear. I demand my dwarf at once.”
“Major, escort this pig from our lands. Then, return to my office,” the second lord said in orcish.
“Stand back, major,” Crushaw said, switching to orcish. “I won’t go so easily.”
“Kill him, major,” the first lord said briskly.
“Guards!” the major called, pulling his sword.
Crushaw waited until several soldiers were within a few yards before he drew his sword. His breathing steadied, his heart rate slowed, and the clearness of thought came over him as it had so many times before. He studied the approaching guards to determine his striking order, and as they got within range, a smile crossed his lips.
“I’ve never tasted orc blood,” he whispered. “But tonight I drink my fill.”
Chapter 13
Unbridled Fury
From her vantage point atop the water tower, Molgheon watched Crushaw’s sword flash from its sheath and decapitate the nearest orc. Within seconds, the entire platoon lay dead. Vishghu had run towards the field-hands’ shack, and as the ogre ran, Molgheon launched arrows at the few soldiers who tried to stop her. Each arrow found its mark with stunning accuracy. Once Vishghu reached the building and went inside, Molgheon turned back to Crushaw, who was slaying another platoon. He had gotten onto the wrap-around porch of the big house and was forcing the unseasoned soldiers to funnel to him in pairs. The veterans didn’t fall for his trick and were retrieving long-handled halberds and pikes from the barracks, but Molgheon shot several dead as they came out the door, keeping the old man’s advantage.