Between Dark and Light (17 page)

“Please, help my friends,” Roskin said.

The plant is hungry.

“I need them,” Roskin pleaded.

“As you wish,” Lorac spoke, and to Roskin, his voice sounded like his oldest friend’s.

Lorac touched each vine, and as before, they slackened and lay still. Bordorn and Krondious scrambled to their feet and rushed to Roskin.

“Are you okay,” Krondious asked, holding his axe.

“I’m fine. Are both of you?”

“Yes,” Bordorn said, locating his sword on the ground.

Krondious nodded, eyeing the elf.

Tell them to put away their weapons.

“You don’t need those,” Roskin said, pointing at the blades.

“The guide warned us about him,” Bordorn said.

“He just saved our lives. Put away your sword.”

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lorac,” the elf said. “And for too long, I’ve missed my home in the Koorleine Forest.”

Take me there, son of Sylva.

Yes
.

Roskin was startled by the voice that came from his own mind. Lorac smiled at him again.

You’ve been taught little about your elfish skills. I will teach you who you really are.

“Where’s the horse?” Bordorn asked.

“It must’ve run off when I dropped the bridle,” Krondious said, looking down the trail.

Call it with your mind.

Roskin thought about the horse and asked it to come back. A vision came of it turning around and starting back up the trail. He told the others not to worry, that the horse was safe. Bordorn and Krondious looked at him and then each other. Roskin turned to Lorac and asked if he was ready to travel.

“More than you’ll ever know,” the elf said. “Please, lead the way.”

Roskin started down the path with Lorac right behind him. Bordorn and Krondious trailed a few feet behind, and Roskin could sense their uneasiness. He wanted to assure them that all was well, for the dark fear that had so often warned of danger offered no feeling against Lorac, but he didn’t know how to explain. Being half-dwarf and half-elf, he couldn’t understand the tension between the two races, but somehow it existed, especially since the Great Empire had driven the wild elves from the Loorish Forest and had conquered the eastern half of the Ghaldeon lands. Each race seemed to resent the other for the defeats more than they blamed the humans. To Roskin, the guide’s warning about Lorac had more to do with that animosity than anything the elf could’ve done.

A couple hundred yards down the trail, he spotted the horse walking to him. All the uneasiness of before had vanished, and it came straight to Roskin and nuzzled its head against his hand. He stroked its ear and told the other dwarves to look. They came forward and petted the horse as Roskin returned his weapons to the pack on its back. He motioned for them to do the same, and Krondious hesitated but followed the suggestion. Bordorn, however, said he would carry his sword and shield.

“Suit yourself,” Roskin said, handing Krondious the bridle. “Let’s get moving.”

They marched steadily until twilight and then found a suitable place to camp. As they prepared supper, they spoke little to each other, and Bordorn sat away from the others, eyeing them as he picked at his food. Roskin ignored his friend’s jealousy, for that was what bothered the dwarf –-jealousy that Lorac had come to Roskin instead of him. The coldness filled him, and he wrapped a blanket around himself and curled up close to the fire again.

He slept soundly again that night and woke early. Lorac was already up, staring east and smiling. Roskin watched him, hoping the elf would show him something new that day. He wanted to learn more about his elfish skills, something the old hermit had been too selfish to teach. Kwarck had wanted to keep him dependent on him, but Lorac would teach him to use his powers.

We must march. Wake the others.

Roskin obeyed without question. Krondious grumbled as he shook him, but Bordorn jumped at his touch, reaching for his sword before recognizing his face. Roskin warned him to settle down, and the Ghaldeon apologized for being startled. Bordorn and Krondious started to build a fire, but Roskin stopped them, explaining the need to hurry. He handed each dried meats from his pack, and they groused about missing the fresh fish and herbs. Roskin ignored them, gathered his belongings, and packed them on the horse.

Within minutes, they were on the move, Roskin again leading with Lorac right behind him and the dwarves trailing. They marched nearly as hard as Roskin had driven them from his kingdom, barely stopping for lunch and continuing until late in the evening. The dwarves fell asleep right after supper, and they started early again the next morning. For four days, they continued this pattern, until they reached the bridge leading into Kehldeon. During the trip, Lorac had not spoken directly to any of them and had barely communicated with Roskin, other than telling him to keep moving and to hurry the others. As they started over the bridge, however, Roskin felt the coldness surge through him.

We need not dawdle here,
Lorac’s stern voice rang in his mind.

We just have to meet with the king for our troops,
Roskin responded.

Be quick. I must get home.

Roskin retraced their steps to the castle, and as they neared the salt and pepper colored diorite of the outer wall, Roskin froze and stared at the sight before him. Along the top of the wall, a massive gallows had been erected, and the forty-three dwarves from Horseshoe Bend hanged in the breeze, flies buzzing around their blackening skin. Roskin studied their faces, twisted and contorted in expressions of agony. Their beards had been shorn, and as they swayed on the ropes, Roskin filled with shame and horror. He turned and faced the others, unable to speak.

“What’s he done?” Krondious mumbled.

“This is madness,” Bordorn said, stepping forward. “We shouldn’t go inside.”

“I agree,” Lorac said, staring blankly at the bodies.

“He killed them all,” Roskin stammered. “I subdued them for a reason.”

“We need to get out of here before someone sees us,” Bordorn said.

“But our troops?” Roskin muttered.

“There aren’t any,” Bordorn replied. “We weren’t supposed to make it off that mountain. Come. Let’s get out of here.”

With that, Bordorn started back the way they had come, explaining they would circle around and make for Horseshoe Bend as fast as they could. Lorac still stared at the bodies, and Roskin glanced at them. Something about the way they hung there, lifeless in the breeze, reminded him of the dwarf he had killed in the leisure slave cage. He remembered grabbing the unsuspecting Tredjard and impaling him on the spikes atop the cage, all in an effort to save himself from that place. Shame filled him at the memory, and he turned from the gallows.

Murderer.

He ignored the voice and hurried after Bordorn and Krondious, but Lorac was right behind him.

We are not so different, son of Sylva. I, too, have made hard decisions.

That was a mistake,
Roskin responded, quickening his pace to distance himself from the castle.

Was it, now? Perhaps, your heart is darker than you know.

No. It was that place, that cage. I didn’t mean to.

Murderer.

The word hung in his mind as he crossed the bridge, following the horse. He hadn’t thought about that moment for a long time. He had pushed it down, refusing to acknowledge that he had in fact murdered that poor dwarf. Lorac was right. His heart was overcome with hate and anger, and he was selfish. How could he face his family again, knowing now what he was? He didn’t deserve to rule the Kiredurks. As he walked along the riverbank, following the dwarves, he forgot about the Great Empire and his injured father and Leinjar. The only thought filling him was that he had to reach the Koorleine Forest and hide for the rest of his life.

Chapter 10

As Redemption Comes to One Deserving

The capital of the Tredjard Kingdom, known to all as the Stone Fortress but officially named Teinkierk, was carved directly from the mountain. Its design made it impenetrable to military conquest, for siege weapons were useless against its fortifications, as any destruction of the foundations would result in a catastrophic cave-in of every surrounding tunnel. The entrances were all forged from thick slabs of iron that could withstand assault by even the strongest of battering rams. Its greatest defense, however, was that deep in the rocks, and why it had been chosen as the location for the capital, a natural spring bubbled up, providing a perpetual source of fresh drinking water.

In the early days of the kingdom, as the Tredjards fought fiercely against the orcs for control of the tunnels, the capital withstood dozens of assaults from massive forces. According to Tredjard history, one such assault lasted for nearly two years before the orcs were finally pushed from the tunnels. Over the centuries, artists had carved murals on the outer walls, depicting the most famous of the defenses, and during the short-lived times of peace, entire families would travel to the capital just to see these carvings and pass along history to the younger generations.

Under normal circumstances, other than the soldiers who defended the gates, military officers, high ranking civilians, and the royal family, visitors were forbidden from entering the fortress. For anyone else to receive an invitation inside meant one of two possibilities: either that dwarf had performed some act of valor worthy of the king’s attention or that dwarf had incited the king’s ire. As such, few Tredjards had ever seen the statues of great kings lining the bailey and the enclosure. Dozens filled the open spaces, some hundreds of years old, and all sculpted by the greatest living masters of their days.

Even fewer Tredjards had seen the great chamber, which had been carved one level above the natural spring. This room, though filled with fine furniture and elaborate tapestries, was most famous for its display of Tredjard weapons and armor. From the earliest crude spears to the most modern pikes, weaponry from every generation of Tredjard military development hung in ornate displays around the room. At the center of the great chamber, the king’s throne sat facing east, the direction from which the orcs usually attacked. The base of the throne, like the fortress itself, had been carved directly from the mountain, and the seat was forged in different sections from palladium and titanium, giving it a silvery and dark blue sheen. The seat was cushioned with thick layers of fabric created by the king’s personal weaver.

All official business was conducted in the great chamber, and for normal business, the chamber only contained enough seats for the king’s advisors and the visiting party, if their presence warranted a seat. However, for special occasions, such as bestowing a title on a valiant warrior or the expulsion of a particularly notorious criminal, the great chamber would be filled with seats, and dwarves of high social status could attend the meeting as observers. As word had spread through the capital that a crazed exile claiming to be Leinjar had been brought to the fortress, every Tredjard of any significance had requested attendance, and the great chamber was filled to capacity.

Leinjar stood a few feet from the throne, with the other two just behind him. As he waited for the king to enter, he studied the weapons along the walls, especially the oldest ones. He imagined defending the kingdom with the crude spears and admired the courage of the Tredjards who had done so. Like most young soldiers, he had often dreamed of seeing this room, and as he had been led through the outer wall, the bailey, the enclosure, the hall, and into the great chamber, he had soaked in as much of the history as he could. Of course, in his youthful dreams, he hadn’t been dressed in tattered rags and shackled at the wrists and ankles, and he had always imagined being rewarded for some act of bravery, instead of having to defend failure.

When the king entered the room, all the observers rose, and the guards surrounding the three prisoners snapped to attention. The king, bent and stiff from old age, shuffled to the throne with an aide holding each arm and stood before the prisoners. His skin, as dark as coffee, showed few wrinkles, but his hair and beard were both white as cotton. His beard clasp, forged from palladium in the shape of the royal symbol, twinkled in the flickering torchlight. His tired eyes studied the three dwarves, and after a few heartbeats, he asked the guards to remove their shackles. The guards obeyed, and as the bindings came off his wrists, Leinjar rubbed his skin to restore the circulation. He wished he could rub his ankles, too, but didn’t want to stoop before the king. With the help of his aides, the king sank into his throne, and the observers took their seats.

“Am I correct that you are here because you claim to be the dwarf named Leinjar?” the king asked, his voice thin and raspy.

“Yes, my king,” Leinjar responded, holding himself as erect as he could.

“If you are that dwarf, what do you ask of your king?”

“I ask first that you treat my two companions with mercy and gratitude. They are fine warriors who have endured many years of slavery.”

“I will consider your opinion of them later. What do
you
ask of your king?”