Between Dark and Light (13 page)

When his aide returned, the captain asked him to fetch his personal scout. The aide saluted and hurried off, and as he waited, Polmere continued to gaze at the slope, where glints of sunlight sparkled off armor and weapons. It made no sense tactically for the dwarves to leave the safety of their gate, so they must be planning something. When his scout arrived, the captain ordered him to ride east and search those mountains for any sign of ambush.

“Take as many scouts and trackers as you can,” the captain said. “Watch for any signs of a new tunnel or path we don’t know about. Be thorough.”

“As you wish,” the scout said, saluting and turning for the stable.

The general might have grown complacent, but Captain Polmere would stand resolute. If these dwarves were planning an ambush, he would learn of it and prepare. The others could squander their lives on alcohol and leisure, but
he
was ambitious. Their jokes and dismissals only fueled his desires. After this campaign, he would become a general, the youngest in the history of the Great Empire, and one day, children at the academy would study his record in awe.

Chapter 8

The Trials of Bordorn

Butterflies filled Bordorn’s stomach, and his palm sweated as he waited to be called before King Johreon the Red. Roskin and the others were forbidden from attending this initial meeting, and Bordorn had been stripped of his weapons, including his shield. Standing in the antechamber clothed in garments soiled from the earthquake and the flight from Dorkhun, he felt inappropriately attired for a meeting of such importance. His education has taught him propriety, and as a Ghaldeon noble, he wished he had more stately clothes to greet the king.

A heavily-armed page appeared from the court and summoned him inside. Across the room, King Johreon the Red sat on his throne, a high-backed palladium structure with thick cushions and ornate carvings. On either side of the king, his most trusted aids sat facing Bordorn, their expressions grave and unmerciful. The page motioned for Bordorn to move forward, and he obeyed, walking to the center of the room and kneeling. As he did, his left arm slipped off his leg and dangled in the air. He attempted moving it back onto his thigh, but in that position, with his right arm bracing him for support, he couldn’t maneuver the nub onto his bent leg. Bordorn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“So you are my cousin from the east,” King Johreon said. “Please, rise.”

Bordorn stood and faced the king, whose red beard showed no traces of gray.

“Have you come to contest my throne?”

“What?” Bordorn asked, incredulous.

The king stared at him, his eyes piercing.

“No,” Bordorn said, tripping over the words as he spoke rapidly. “You are the rightful leader of the Ghaldeon tribes. My family has always supported your rule.”

“I’m just teasing, cousin,” the king said, laughing and slapping the marble table. “You should see your face.”

“Well, now that you mention it,” Bordorn said, smiling in relief.

“It’s good to meet you, Bordorn. I always hoped you would leave the Kiredurks and move here.”

“Actually, I left them many years ago, settling in the Snivegohn Valley. That’s what brings me here today.”

“Oh, really? Please, explain.”

Bordorn carefully explained the story he and Roskin had rehearsed, describing how the Great Empire had overrun the valley and his small militia had been driven onto Mount Lokholme to hide. The king listened intently as he told of Kraganere’s pledge to send troops and how Roskin had risked his life to deliver the pledge. When Bordorn finished, he expected a barrage of questions, but instead, the king simply sighed.

“Everyone but Bordorn, leave this room at once,” he said forcefully.

One of the advisors protested, but the king silenced her with a sharp stare. The advisors rose and filed out the rear entrance. The king told his page to leave as well, and the soldier saluted and stepped into the antechamber, closing the door behind him. When the room had emptied save the two of them, the king exhaled and slumped in his throne.

“You’ve come to me nobly, my kin,” Johreon said. “You’ve obviously fought valiantly, and for that, I’m proud of you.”

Bordorn glanced at his left arm and dirty clothes then up at the king.

“But you’ve come to me during hard times. Our lands are troubled, cousin.”

“How so?”

“Come, sit beside me,” the king said, patting the chair to his right.

Bordorn circled around the marble slab and sat in the cushioned seat. Johreon looked him in the eyes, and Bordorn returned the gaze, smiling. As he smiled, the king’s face melted from an expression of strength and leadership to one of stress and fatigue. Bordorn reached out and gripped the king’s right hand, and moisture filled the king’s eyes.

“My rule is failing, cousin. Our people are broken and fragmented.”

“What’s happened?”

“For starters, some of the outlying towns have stopped recognizing my authority and are being run by local thugs.”

“Horseshoe Bend one of them?” Bordorn asked.

“The worst. It’s run by an upstart named Alganeon who lusts for power. He’s building his own militia and forming alliances with other towns. One day soon, he’ll come for my throne. Have you heard of him?”

Bordorn nodded, clenching his jaw.

“You’re lucky to have survived. He’s wicked and sly. Whenever I’ve sent troops to capture him, his sentries warn him, and he slips off before we can surround the town.”

“I’m sorry, my king. I had no idea.”

“It’s worse. To the west, some great evil grows in the mountains. It’s killing many cattle, and all troops I’ve sent to investigate have never returned. The people are losing faith in my ability to rule.”

“What is this evil?”

“No one knows for certain. Some say it’s a monster roaming the slopes. Others have seen a crazed elf wandering there and believe he’s the culprit. All I know is that my soldiers are too scared to travel into those mountains and find it.”

Bordorn stared at the floor, searching for something to say.

“I know you’ve come to ask for troops, but as things stand, I have none to offer under these circumstances.”

“I understand,” Bordorn mumbled, his stomach sinking.

“However, I’ll make you a deal. If you and your friends can capture Alganeon and his inner circle and then destroy whatever evil this is to the west, I’ll give you all the troops I can spare.”

“Can you send troops to help us with Alganeon?”

“No, if he sees any of my soldiers, he’ll sneak out of town and hide like he always does.”

Bordorn considered the twenty soldiers who had surrounded Krondious and him and the other ten who had entered the inn. Eight against thirty wasn’t easy odds, but then, he thought about Krondious, the Kiredurk who had slain three ogres without breaking a sweat and also a troll with one strike of his axe. Between his might and Roskin’s skill, the odds didn’t seem so daunting, so he found himself agreeing to the deal before even realizing he had done so.

“Excellent, cousin,” the king said, the expression of sorrow lifting from his face. He called for his page. The dwarf entered from the antechamber, and the king spoke sternly, “Give these dwarves back their weapons and enough rations to reach Horseshoe Bend.” The page bowed and waited for Bordorn.

“What should we do with Alganeon?” Bordorn asked.

“Bring him to me. Dead or alive. It makes no difference. Now, get moving.”

Bordorn nodded and followed the page out of the court. The Ghaldeons and Krondious would be pleased with the opportunity to face Alganeon again so soon, but Bordorn wasn’t sure how Roskin would react. Time was already against them, and this task was only the first they had to complete. The Kiredurk might not understand why they would have to spend so much time helping the Ghaldeon king, but Bordorn believed he had made the right choice.

***

After Bordorn left, the king summoned his advisors back into the court. They took their seats and stared at him. He sat in silence, a smile stretching his red beard.

“What was that all about?” one asked.

“Killing three birds with one stone,” the king said. “The fool thinks I bought his nonsense about the Snivegohn Militia. Like we didn’t already know about the Great Empire taking the valley and preparing to attack the Kiredurks.”

“What’s the plan?” another advisor asked.

“First, they’ll subdue Alganeon for us. Then, I’m sending them to Mount Delkhun to investigate.”

“The thing?”

“Yes. Even if they succeed with Alganeon, the thing will do them in, and not only will the last of the house of Logruhk have no claim to this throne, the Kiredurks will be repaid for their treachery during the Resistance.”

“But what if the Great Empire crosses Mount Lokholme?”

“Then, they will face the might of our army on our slopes. The Great Empire is no threat to us here.”

***

At the armory, Bordorn explained the deal to the group. As predicted, the Ghaldeons and Krondious slapped him on the back and cheered the news, but Roskin hung his head and didn’t speak. Bordorn moved beside him and extended his hand.

“It’s the best I could do,” he said.

Reluctantly, Roskin shook his hand and nodded.

“We need to get moving,” Bordorn added.

“We need clubs,” Roskin said.

“Clubs?” Krondious asked, his hand rubbing his axe.

“Yes, clubs. We’re not drawing blades on our kin.”

“But we’re already outnumbered,” Krestreon said, his voice rising an octave.

“I don’t care. We subdue them, not kill them.”

“Can you lend us clubs?” Bordorn asked the page. He had known Roskin long enough to identify his obstinance.

The page shrugged, a bemused expression on his face. He opened a cabinet, retrieved eight clubs, and passed them to the group.

“This the biggest you got?” Krondious asked, looking at the stick.

The page nodded and closed the cabinet. Then, he led them to the pantry, where they gathered rations for the trip. He finally showed them to the stable where their horses had been fed, watered, and groomed. The Ghaldeons took the bridles and led them from the stable, turning down the road back to Horseshoe Bend. Bordorn trailed behind the group a few feet, hoping he had made the right choice accepting this deal.

***

Roskin stopped just before the bridge and explained that they would leave their horses there and march into town, armed only with the clubs. On the way out of Kehldeon, Krondious had exchanged his club for an axe handle with a merchant who didn’t want to make the trade but also didn’t want to argue with the thick-chested white beard. They would walk down the middle of the broad street and stop near the inn. Roskin expected the thugs to surround them, so he wanted the Ghaldeons to guard their rear, while he, Bordorn and Krondious would take on any in front.

Bordorn adjusted the shield on his left arm and then picked up his club with his right. He gripped the handle with his sweaty palm and walked between Roskin and Krondious. The Ghaldeons followed them, and Bordorn glanced back at them. Krestreon winked at him and grinned, and Bordorn nodded back, but he was too nervous to smile. In the safety of Kehldeon, this idea had seemed simple enough, but now, on the rutted street of Horseshoe Bend, it seemed foolish to willingly face such overwhelming odds armed only with fancy sticks. He wished he had demanded the king send troops for backup.

As they neared the inn, the same group of dwarves sat on the porch, and again, at the sight of them, one jumped up and scurried off to another building. This time, however, two rushed into the inn. Roskin motioned the group to fan out. He and Krondious moved close to opposite edges of the porch, leaving Bordorn alone in the middle, and the Ghaldeons turned around and also fanned out. After a few moments, well-armed dwarves appeared from the other building and approached. The three remaining on the porch rose and walked in front of Bordorn. Within seconds, they were completely surrounded, not by thirty but closer to forty heavily armed dwarves.

“You flea beards don’t listen too well,” Alganeon called from the inn’s porch.

“Tell these dwarves to lay down their weapons,” Roskin responded. “And we’ll only deliver you to the king.

“Not only can’t you hear,” Alganeon said, laughing. “You don’t see so well, either. This time, we throw your corpses in the river for the fish.”

“Last chance,” Roskin growled.

Bordorn raised his shield and readied his club. The thugs drew their swords into low guard, the afternoon sun glinting off the metal. A bead of sweat dripped from Bordorn’s nose, and he glanced at Krondious, who leaned on his axe handle like he was taking a break from a leisurely stroll. Astounded by the Kiredurk’s nerves, Bordorn refocused on the dwarves directly across from him. They glared at him without a trace of mercy.

Alganeon yelled for his troops to attack. Suddenly, all became a torrent of motions and sounds. Bordorn braced for the assault, using his shield to block the strikes of the three who reached him first. The swords thudded against the metal within a heartbeat of each other, and the force of their blows drove him back a step. As they recovered to strike again, he swung his club at the one to his right, hitting the dwarf firmly in the shoulder. The brown-bearded dwarf winced from the impact and staggered back, but the other two slashed again. Bordorn blocked them, but before he could counter, they hacked at his shield, this time pushing him back another step.