Between Dark and Light (12 page)

Jorland the Coward had fled from duty during a battle and had hid in the mountains for forty years. As old age overtook him, he had longed to see his birthplace once more, so he had ventured back into the kingdom, expecting to have been forgotten. At the gate, the guards had been trained to interrogate everyone, especially returning Tredjards, for few dark beards willingly ventured out of the kingdom. Those trying to come back were usually outcasts, and during the five hour interrogation, Jorland had slipped up and used his real name.

He was delivered to the king, who hadn’t been born when Jorland had abandoned his post, and despite the passage of forty years, he had been executed for cowardice. As he had told the tale, Leinjar’s father, himself a veteran of many battles and missing an arm, had stressed to the downy-bearded young Tredjard the value of courage and the penalty for spinelessness. Death in battle left one in honorable standing. Failure to fulfill one’s duty was unspeakable shame. To Tredjards, no gray area existed, and now, much like Jorland the Coward, Leinjar would have to face the guards’ interrogation, one he himself had been trained to administer.

He looked at his two companions, whose faces hid any excitement they may have felt at returning home. One had been in the cage when Leinjar arrived and had survived hundreds of leisure slave battles. The other had only arrived a few years back but had fought valiantly on the Slithsythe, at Hard Hope, and in the logging town. Both deserved better than to be executed for his shame. He asked if they were certain they wanted to enter the kingdom with him, and both nodded, so Leinjar mustered up his courage and continued down the dirt path.

The gate rose from the mountainside like a warning to turn back, its stone and steel fortifications offering no hint of hospitality. Even on this border, far from any threat of orcs or the Great Empire, the bars were thick and sturdy, and crossbows peeked through the slots, watching for a threat. As he neared, Leinjar held out his palms and advanced slowly, anticipating the order to halt. His last opportunity to turn back was gone, for the crossbows shifted positions, trained on him and the other two.

***

The sergeant at the Ghaldeon gate, as it was known, peered through the slots and watched the three Tredjards moving down the trail. They were dirty and unkempt, their beards and hair tangled, matted, and greasy with no beard clip to signify rank. Their clothes were a beggar’s rags, and they looked thin and aged. However, their weapons, orcish pikes, were battle-tested and well-maintained. If any Tredjards seeking re-entry to the kingdom fit the profile of outcasts, these three were it, and the sergeant told his troops to ready themselves for trouble.

“That’s far enough,” he called, stopping the three ten yards from the gate. “State your business.”

“We seek an audience with the king on behalf of the Kiredurks,” the middle one said, his eyes those of a madman.

“That so?” the sergeant scoffed. “You’re the best those weaklings could send?”

“We’ve covered many miles. Please, forgive our appearance.”

“Lie to me, and we’ll fill you with bolts. Where did you get those weapons, dark beard?”

“The orc plantation we escaped from, sergeant.”

“How do you know my rank?”

“I once wore the same clip.”

The sergeant turned to his archers, who shrugged in confusion. He looked back at the crazy-eyed dwarf:

“Your name, then?”

“I’m Leinjar, Sergeant of the Torjhien and Stoljehn gate.”

The sergeant glanced back at his archers, whose expressions had changed from confusion to bewilderment. Surely he had misheard the dwarf. Only a fool would appear at the gate, using that name to gain entrance. He asked the archers if they had heard him, and they nodded.

“Say again,” the sergeant called through the bars.

“My name is Leinjar.”

“What should I do?” the sergeant whispered to the dwarf beside him.

“It can’t be him,” the archer whispered back.

“I’ll give the scum this much,” another archer said. “He has guts.”

“What should I do?” the sergeant repeated.

“Call the captain,” the first archer said.

“Good idea,” the sergeant whispered. Through the bars he called, “You three wait right there.”

***

The captain left the interrogation room and looked at his sergeant. For two hours, he had grilled the outcast, trying to make him reveal his true identity, but the dwarf’s story never changed. Though the facts fit, he couldn’t believe that this dwarf -- dirty, gaunt, and pungent as he was -- had ever served in the Tredjard military. They prided themselves too much on discipline and order. And then, there were his eyes. Surely, this dwarf was simply a lunatic using that name in some misguided attempt to return to the kingdom. The sergeant shrugged.

“It can’t be him,” the captain said, scratching his beard.

“What if it is?” the sergeant asked. “Think of the reward we’ll get for taking him to the king.”

“Let me see those weapons again,” the captain said, ignoring his sergeant.

The pikes had been hung on hooks in the tunnel, and the captain traced his fingers along the markings. They were authentic orcish pikes, but the captain couldn’t believe the story the outcast had told of escaping a plantation. Ogres, humans, and elves overthrowing slave masters in a revolt. The notion itself was preposterous. Still, the weapons were real, for he had fought along the front lines and had seen their like firsthand. His only choice was to take this lunatic before the king for judgment.

“Sergeant, you’ll be in charge of the gate while I’m gone.”

The sergeant saluted, grinning at the opportunity.

“Assemble a team of five while I gather my things. Tell them to be ready to travel in one hour.”

“If it is him,” the sergeant said. “Don’t forget I’m the one who first found him.”

“And when it’s not, I won’t forget, either.”

The sergeant’s smile faded as he contemplated the ramifications of that possibility. The captain laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. Then, he turned and walked to his quarters to tell his family that he would be leaving for the capital. They would want to travel with him, but he would have to deny them, for while these Tredjards were filthy and ragged, they also had an air of danger. The risk was too great for his family to travel in the presence of dwarves such as these. His wife would be angry, and his children would pout, but he would rather face that than gamble with their lives. As he followed the tunnel towards home, he wondered what would happen if this dwarf turned out to be Leinjar.

***

Molgheon knelt and examined the tracks along the road. She had followed Torkdohn down the mountain, but near the base, he had been picked up by a wagon. For two weeks, she had been following its path through the mountains as it snaked into the conquered lands, heading towards Sturdeon. She had already passed Murkdolm and was grateful to have gotten by without being spotted, but she was low on rations and needed rest. However, she feared losing the wagon’s trail if she slowed her pace or stopped in a village for supplies. She rose from the ground and continued, satisfied she was still following the right tracks.

Her best guess was the wagon belonged to another slave trader who had recognized the old dwarf. Another possibility was that the Great Empire had captured him and planned to imprison him in Sturdeon, but she hadn’t gotten close enough to see the wagon, so both were guesses. By her reckoning, it was a full day ahead but traveled slowly, for it hadn’t put significant distance between them in two weeks. That’s what made her suspect a slave trader. Those villains usually crept along, watching for stray dwarves to capture.

Her face had healed quite a bit, but the long scabs on her cheeks told her she would have prominent scars. Leinjar and the others had arrived just in time, though, and she was grateful to have her fingers intact. Had they been one minute later, she would have been as helpless as Bressard, unable to fight or hunt for herself. She wasn’t ready to face that future, and as she pushed herself along the path, she reminded herself that Torkdohn had to pay for his crimes, both against Roskin and herself. Those thoughts kept her marching, despite the pains in her feet and back.

***

Captain Polmere watched his troops train for the spring assault on the Kiredurk gate. They would camp in this valley for at least six months, living off the farms and surviving the winter. When thaws came, they would march up the slope, hauling battering rams to smash stone and iron. General Strauteefe would attack the eastern gate around the same time, and they would meet in Dorkhun before summer to capture the kingdom. Once they controlled the Kiredurk resources, they would turn their attention to the ogres, crushing their forces before the winter snows returned.

At Black Rock Fortress, four regiments trained to attack the ogres from the south. As those 20,000 troops pushed north, General Strauteefe would attack from the west, using the eastern gate as his launching point. Captain Polmere hoped to be part of that campaign, and if all went well, he would request a station directly serving Strauteefe. He knew the general had trained under Crushaw and was revered as the greatest living general in the Great Empire. The captain wanted to learn as much as he could from Strauteefe before assuming his own command as a general.

His aide beckoned for his attention, so he turned and motioned him forward. The aide delivered news of several platoons of Kiredurks that had marched onto the trail. Captain Polmere looked up at Mount Gagneesh and, though he couldn’t make out any figures, saw sunlight glittering off metal. He thanked his aide and requested his horse. The young man disappeared and returned moments later, leading his horse by its bridle. The captain mounted and rode in the direction of General Mongaham’s tent.

Inside the tent, the general entertained several officers, passing around a jug of whiskey and telling a story about capturing Ghaldeons during the Resistance. The men roared with laughter as he described the dwarves’ fear, but the amusement was as much from the alcohol as the tale. Captain Polmere gritted his teeth at the scene and saluted his general.

“Pull up a chair,” General Mongaham said, motioning for the jug to be passed to the captain.

Polmere declined both offers and apologized for interrupting.

“Nonsense,” the general said, grabbing the jug. “They’ve heard it a dozen times.”

The captain explained what he had learned about the Kiredurks appearing on the trail and waited as the general, who sat sprawled in his seat, scratched his chest. The other officers continued to pass the jug.

“What are my orders?” Captain Polmere asked, growing impatient.

“You see, gentlemen,” the general said to the officers. “All business, just like I said. Keep an eye on this one. He’s ambitious.”

“Just doing my duty, sir,” the captain said, staring down.

“Duty, yes, duty,” the general said, chuckling. “I meant no offense, but you must learn to relax.”

The other officers laughed, muttering jibes at the captain. Polmere remained silent, waiting for an answer.

“How many dwarves?” the general asked, growing serious.

“Several platoons, according to the scouts.”

“So I’m safe to assume less than a thousand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The general belched loudly, which caused another round of guffaws.

“What kind of threat do they pose?” the general continued.

“No threat, sir, but I think we should engage them.”

“See, burning with ambition.”

“He’ll be Emperor Polmere, one day,” an officer called, causing the group to roar again.

The captain ground his back teeth, fighting against the anger rising in his chest.

“What good will it do to engage?” General Mongaham asked.

“There’s obviously a reason for them to have exited the gate,” the captain said. “We should learn that reason.”

The general gathered himself erect in his seat and leaned forward. The officers stifled their laughter, but occasionally snickered as the general stared at the captain, who peered back fiercely.

“You’ve not seen many battles, have you?” the general asked.

“None, yet, sir.”

Several snickers broke out from his candor, and Captain Polmere suddenly felt foolish.

“If these dwarves march down to face us, you have my permission to slaughter them en masse, but as long as they are high up, please, don’t worry about trifles.”

The captain nodded, his eyes fixed on the worn rug under the general’s chair.

“You’re a fine soldier, but execute my plan. We don’t go up that slope until spring. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, either join us for a drink or back to your duties.”

The captain thanked the general for the offer but excused himself and started for the exit.

“Good day, Emperor,” one officer said, standing and saluting.

Thunderous laughter erupted, and Captain Polmere hurried from the tent to his horse, squinting as his eyes readjusted to sunlight. Twice now, he had come to the general with serious concerns, only to be treated like an imbecile each time. Not one of those officers, the general as well, were half the soldier he was, yet somehow he felt small and insignificant riding back to his post. Part of him accepted the general had more experience, but mostly, he believed the general had grown complacent from too many years overseeing a conquered people. Perhaps in his youth, the general had been a focused soldier, but now, he cared more for drink and entertainment than the task at hand. The Kiredurks were up to something, and Polmere wanted to know what, but as a dutiful captain, he would not go against his general’s wishes. Instead, he dismounted at his station and examined the slope as his aide returned the horse to the stable. Soon, his opportunity to prove himself would arrive, and when it did, he would rise to the challenge.