“The look on his men’s faces says otherwise,” Bryon suggested.
“Would you slovenly waste the lives of your men?” Balzarak asked, stepping forward, also unarmed. “Your men who are dead fought bravely, but look at these soldiers. There is no honor in killing them and, to speak truth, I would rather not.”
“Who are you, tunnel rat?” the Lieutenant said.
“You are speaking to the Lord of Fornhig, Lord General Balzarak Stone Axe, Commander of the Dwarvish Armies of Thrak Baldüukr. But what does it matter who I am? I could have you killed with a single word. If I were but a lowly warrior, would it matter?”
“I do not treat with stinking tunnel diggers,” the Lieutenant hissed.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Erik said when he heard a low grumble come from several of their dwarvish companions.
“What about your men?” Balzarak asked. “Would they treat with a stinking tunnel digger if I offered them their lives?”
“That is not their choice,” Lieutenant Phurnan replied.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Wrothgard said.
Wrothgard spoke to the soldiers in their native tongue of Shengu. Slowly, they dropped their weapons and backed away from their leader.
“Don’t forget this one,” Erik called to them, pointing at the lame soldier at his feet.
The least injured of the three surviving soldiers came and propped the man up, draping his arm around a shoulder and half carrying him.
“What are you doing?” Lieutenant Phurnan cried. “You cowards! The General will hear of this, and he will have you flayed, skinned, fed to the trolls.”
He started yelling in Shengu again and, from the smirk growing on Wrothgard’s face, Erik could only imagine what colorful phrases the Lieutenant used. Despite the berating, the four soldiers walked out of the glade and into the nearby forest, never looking back at the Lieutenant.
“I have never known General Al’Banan to blame his regular soldiers for a defeat in battle,” Wrothgard said, daring to take a few steps forward. “However, I have known him to hold his officers very accountable. And flaying, no, that is not his style. No, if I remember correctly, he prefers burning to other forms of torture and execution.”
The Lieutenant’s face suddenly went white. Erik could see him tremble as the dwarves surrounded him. He fell to his knees, clasped his hands together, and began to cry.
“No, please. Mercy. Don’t kill me.”
“Don’t you wish for an honorable death?” Wrothgard asked.
The Lieutenant looked around, the dwarves closing in tightly around him. He dropped his chin to his chest and sobbed.
“No,” he said. “I wish for life.”
“Do not worry,” Balzarak said. “Lowly dwarves such as ourselves have no business in giving you the honor of death in battle.”
“Do they mean to take him prisoner?” Bryon asked, to which Erik simply shrugged.
“No.”
Dwain’s voice startled him, but Erik turned to see the eldest dwarf standing there, watching as Turk and Wrothgard dragged the Lieutenant to the middle of the glade and tied his hands behind his back.
“We seldom take prisoners,” Dwain explained, “and certainly, now, that would be impossible. They will bind his hands, as you can see, and make sure he leaves into the forest. We will wait, make sure he doesn’t follow or spy where we go. Perhaps even send scouts out to make sure he has truly left. And then we will move on.”
“Why not just kill him?” Erik asked, but he knew the answer before Dwain could give it.
“Honor. His men have left him, surrendering to a stronger foe, living to fight another day, and, so, now he asks for mercy.”
“Isn’t there dishonor in surrendering?” Erik asked.
“No, young man,” Dwain explained with a smile on his face. “If it is the prudent decision, if it is the decision that gives life rather than meaningless death, if it is the wise decision that leads to peace, there is no dishonor in surrendering.”
Dwain broke his gaze from the binding of the Lieutenant and turned to Erik and his cousin.
“You two fought very well today.” He smiled, and that made Erik smile. “Perhaps it makes things a little easier, having a magical sword. But, nonetheless, you fought bravely—like two well-seasoned warriors. A well-earned victory today, if not a costly one.”
Dwain looked to the hill, as did Erik, and he saw Befel escorting a limping Bofim. When the dwarf came to the limp body of Mortin, arrows still sticking from his chest, he collapsed next to him and began to weep.
Chapter 55
WROTHGARD LOOKED ON AS BOFIM, nose bloodied, and eyes bruised, sat by Mortin’s body. Bofim whispered to the dead dwarf, hand placed firmly on his shoulder.
“They were good friends,” Threhof said. “They went through much together in service in the tunnels. Their families are close. Bofim’s son is married to Mortin’s daughter. Mortin’s eldest son was a hearth-warden to Bofim, and Bofim was present for the baptism of all three of Mortin’s sons.”
“Baptism?” Wrothgard questioned, but Threhof shook his head, and Wrothgard didn’t press his question any further.
He looked on as Bofim held Mortin’s hand.
“It is the great misunderstanding of the rest of the world in regard to dwarves,” Threhof continued. “They think the only emotion we bear is anger and that we all yearn for death on the battlefield, that there is no other goal for a dwarf. The world thinks we beat our sons for crying, shun them for showing fear, cast out our daughters for bearing weaklings, and divorce our wives for bearing us only daughters.”
“But, you do hail death in battle as an honor,” Wrothgard said, almost questioning, “more so than other people.”
“Yes.” Threhof nodded. “Death in a righteous battle, death in a duel for a justifiable cause. But death is final. And even though I do believe our brother will be dining in the halls of An tonight, with his ancestors and all others who have gone before him—men and women—we will not see him again in this lifetime, and that is a very sad thing.”
“I miss you so much, my brothers,” Wrothgard whispered as Bofim cried over his dead friend. “How I wish you were here, with me. Are you dining in the halls of heaven with your ancestors? Which heaven? Or is it all rubbish, foolishness our mothers used to tell us at night to calm our nerves?”
He looked down at his open hands, his palms, and in that moment, they looked old. Worn, dirty, and bloody, cracked and splintered. They looked used.
“Tedish. Samus. I don’t know who to pray to, but I do hope you are in a good place. I do hope you are laughing and joking, and I think I would give anything to see you again.”
Bofim stood as best he could. He bowed his head, and the other dwarves joined him as Bofim chanted something in dwarvish and, even though Wrothgard had no idea what it was he said, the words sounded sad and joyful all at the same time, and they sent goose pimples up his arm. He decided he would bow his head as well and close his eyes and try to imagine what it was Bofim could be saying.
When Bofim had finished speaking, Wrothgard walked over to the Lieutenant, hands bound behind his back and on his knees, crying at the feet of Balzarak.
“Please,” Lieutenant Phurnan pleaded. “You cannot leave me here with my hands tied behind my back. The trolls . . . they will come back . . . they will . . .”
He began to cry so heavily he could not speak.
“And what of your men?” Balzarak asked. “Do you not have the same concern for them? Do you not care that it could be them the trolls attack, kill, eat?”
“Uh . . . yes . . . of course. I must run to help them. Yes, help them. I cannot help them with my hands tied behind my back. Think of my men.”
“You care nothing for your men,” said Wrothgard before he spat on the Lieutenant and kicked him in the face.
He saw Balzarak give him a disconcerted look, but Wrothgard ignored it.
“Who are you?” Wrothgard grabbed Lieutenant Phurnan by the collar of his breastplate an
d pulled him up, so they were face to face. “Some nobleman’s son who was forgotten when the Stévockians took over? Some lady’s bastard child who could find no position in the new political machine of Golgolithul? The third son of a lowly family whose name has been forgotten by time? You are nothing.”
Wrothgard threw Phurnan to the ground.
“You are no Lieutenant, no officer. You don’t even know what that means.”
“Enough.” Balzarak stepped forward. “We have three options. I could kill you here—a fate you probably deserve.”
Phurnan began to cry again.
“We could let you go or, we could send you back to Thorakest with two of my warriors.”
Phurnan smiled at that, inching forward on his knees.
“Do not be so happy about that last option,” Balzarak said. “You would most certainly be kept in the dungeons until you were either taken to the quarries to break rock for the rest of your days or executed.”
“My lord,” Wrothgard said, “we cannot afford to send warriors back. Especially with Mortin’s death.”
Balzarak nodded.
“You have the power to stand as this man’s judge,” Wrothgard said. “If he is let go, I fear we will see him again. Think of the men he has killed. Think of the dwarves he has surely killed.”
Balzarak thought for a moment then shook his head.
“This man, as despicable as he is, eventually surrendered. I would not feel well standing judge over him without a trial. We will bind his hands and leave him. That is my decision.”
Just then, Wrothgard made eye contact with Switch. The thief winked to him. Wrothgard felt himself smile, and he gave the fellow easterner a quick nod. Switch eyed the man as a wolf might eye a newborn calf, cornered and helpless. He licked his lips and gave a rictus smile, walking behind Phurnan—who paid no attention to the thief—gripping one his knives with white knuckles.
Balzarak turned to Thormok and Gôdruk.
“Lass se he.”
“He’s telling them to let him go,” Wrothgard said to himself, “I know it.”
Wrothgard looked to Switch. He nodded again. The thief wrapped his arm around the Lieutenant’s throat, pulled him in tight, and plunged his knife into the back of the man’s leg. Wrothgard felt himself grimace at the ripping and tearing sounds the blade made as Switch jerked it sideways and up and down. Phurnan screamed, and Switch let him go. He clutched at his leg, tried to step, and crumpled to the ground. The look Balzarak gave Switch was a hard look, filled with anger and distaste.
“Slipped.” Switch nonchalantly shrugged his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Come,” Balzarak said to his warriors. “Let us prepare Mortin.”
Wrothgard let them go and waited behind with Switch. The thief knelt by the crying Lieutenant.
“I know what you look like,” said Switch as he leaned in, close to the Lieutenant’s ear. “You look like a little rabbit whose foot is caught in a bloody trap. Have you ever seen that? The way they whimper and squeal when they can smell the fox get closer.”
“Of course he hasn’t,” Wrothgard said. “He’s probably never hunted. He’s never done the work for himself. He’s no hunter. No fox. He’s the pack master—the dirty, cowardly bastard who stays in the den and sends out the foxes for fear of getting blood on his new hunting boots.”
The Lieutenant rolled onto his back.
“At least leave me my sword.”
“Oh no,” Switch sneered. “Little, fluffy bunny rabbits don’t have weapons.”
“If you truly want your sword, it’s over there.” Wrothgard pointed to the spot where the Lieutenant finally surrendered, his sword lying among the tall grass. “You can crawl over there and get it. Come on Switch. Let’s go.”
“Too bad I can’t be around for lunch,” Wrothgard heard Switch say, and he hated that it made him smile. “I would so like to see what’s on the menu.”
Wrothgard saw Bofim and Beldar putting Mortin’s body, wrapped head to foot in furs, on a litter made of two spears, more furs, and leather breastplates from the dead easterners.
“Are we taking him with us?” Wrothgard asked.
Turk nodded.
“We will bury him in the forest, away from here.”
“Why not here?” Wrothgard asked. “Or why not send him back to Thorakest with Bofim?”
“We cannot afford to lose any more warriors,” Turk replied, “and if we bury him here, the trolls would certainly dig up his body—and it would take too long to bury him deep enough to stop them from it.”
“You don’t think something else will dig him up, out there in the forest?”
“Perhaps,” Turk said. “It is an aspect of life. Our soul leaves our earthly body, and that body returns to the earth as dust. We know this. We accept this. In a way, it makes me laugh and think those silly that try and preserve the earthly bodies of their loved ones. We just don’t want Mortin’s remains to feed trolls, that is all. And we want time to pay our respects to our fallen friend, and this doesn’t seem the place to do so.”
“We all turn to shit when we die,” Switch muttered. “What’s it matter? Who cares where our dust eventually settles?”
Once the men and dwarves were out of sight, Sorben Phurnan crawled to the nearest dead body and grabbed the man’s sword. He would have preferred his sword, given to him by his father, but this would do.
Sorben stuck the sword in the ground and tried to pull himself up, but the back of his leg burned, and he fell. He looked to the forest and saw those eyes. They were gone, but he could still see them. Dull. Gray. Evil. The man who cut his leg had waved and blown him a kiss before he disappeared into the trees.
“You will be the first one I deal with when I catch up to you.”
He tried pulling himself up again, to no avail. His men had fled in that direction as well.
“Cowards.” He spat on the dead soldier. “I hope the trolls find you. It will at least satiate them for a while. Give me more time.”
He tried pulling himself up, one more time. This time, he stood, albeit wobbly and uncertain. His leg was on fire, from his heel to his hip, and when he tried to put weight on it, he found himself on his face again. He tried standing yet again but felt woozy, tired, worn. He thought he was bleeding to death and began to panic, but feeling the back of his leg, Sorben realized there was very little blood. He was just . . . scared.
Wind rustled through the high branches of the trees surrounding the meadow, and with the wind came a putrid smell. It made Sorben gag before he saw those yellow eyes and gray skin.
“Oh, you are disgusting.” He put an arm to his nose. “You cowards. Come help me.”
Mountain trolls were stupid, barbaric, and primitive, but they did have a language, and he knew they understood Shengu.
The troll just stared at him, leaning forward on its hands.
“Did you hear me, you stupid beast? Help me!”
He felt his face grow hot as his hands shook. His leg hurt more than he had ever hurt before, and he was tired.
The beast stood, put its nose to the air and sniffed, long, sucking breaths. It grunted several times, made a clicking sound, and then barked.
“Are you some sort of dog, you piece of shit? I know you know what I’m saying.”
Two more trolls walked into the meadow. He recognized one of them, with a wide scar along its forehead and a left hand with only three fingers. They barked and growled back. They were talking.
“What is this?” Sorben muttered.
Two more trolls appeared. They barked and growled and grunted and then one of them howled, loud and long. The first one ran at him.
“You son of a—”
Sorben struggled to his feet again, trying to lift his sword and stand at the same time, but the troll’s foot rammed into his stomach, and Sorben Phurnan felt himself flying.
He landed hard and felt the air leave his lungs as he heard cracking, felt more pain in his leg, felt new pain in his right elbow and back.
He looked up, and a troll stood over him, its saliva dripping over his face. It reached down and grabbed the collar of his steel breastplate. With a single jerk, the creature ripped the armor from Sorben’s body. He heard the leather straps snap, and a pinpointed heat seared through his back. The troll then grabbed his shirt, lifted him, and threw him as if he was a pebble. He landed hard again, this time face down and felt ribs crack and knew his left wrist hung limply, wrongly, twisted and broken. A thick hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him over.
He saw another troll, the one with the wide scar along his brow.
“You will regret this,” Sorben hissed, his whole body racked with pain.
The troll seemed to laugh.
“I will watch as they skin you alive. I will make your hide into a rug.”
It shook its massive head.
“No.” Its voice was a gruff gurgle as it tried to voice words in Sorben’s language. “You die.”
“Die.” Sorben laughed. “I think not. Any minute, General Patûk’s troops will appear and kill you.”
It shook its head again.
“You die. You food. I eat.”
The troll looked down at him, its yellow eyes fixed on him, its teeth bare. It grabbed Sorben and picked him up over its head. He screamed as his whole body shook and the trolls howled. The troll bit into Sorben’s shoulder hard, and with a single jerk, the troll ripped the man’s arm off.
Sorben looked to where his right arm should’ve been, and he felt nothing. Shock and being so close to death seemed to have shut down his senses. Another troll ran over to him and bit into his side, tearing off a chunk of flesh, and this time Sorben screamed. Then another troll ran over to him, and the last thing he saw was the opened maw of a mountain troll that once cowered in fear of him.
Chapter 56
“THAT FOOL!” PATÛK AL’BANAN SLAMMED his fist on the table in front of him.
“I’m sorry, my lord.” The soldier cowered, kneeling and head down. “He had us charge uphill. They slaughtered us. Then, they gave us a chance to surrender, but Lieutenant Phurnan wanted us to keep fighting, sir. But there was no point. I’m sorry.”
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