Between Dark and Light (21 page)

Bordorn was worried about Roskin. Ever since Lorac had joined them, the strange fever had returned, and his moods were dark and sullen. From the moment they had seen the dwarves hanging at the castle, he had grown more and more withdrawn, snapping at Bordorn and Krondious if they spoke to him. In all the years Bordorn had known the Kiredurk heir, even in his early teens when he was prone to outbursts, the Ghaldeon had never seen him so angry and brooding. He even seemed to have forgotten about the danger to his kingdom, for not once since they had left Kehldeon had he uttered a word about how they were going to drive the Great Empire from the valley. Given how single-minded he had been, Bordorn found that most peculiar.

Staying in the shadows, he crept to the inn and climbed the steps to the front door. He turned to make certain the others were still with him. Roskin and Lorac sat on the bench where he had waited the first time they came here. He walked over to the edge of the porch and spoke directly to Lorac:

“Aren’t you coming inside?” he asked, as Krondious tied the horse to a post.

“We’ll wait here,” the elf said. His voice reminded Bordorn of a wounded animal.

“Roskin needs something hot to eat,” Bordorn persisted. Krondious moved beside him and folded his arms across his chest.

“He said we’ll wait here,” Roskin snapped. “Now, go.”

Bordorn bit his lip and glanced at Krondious, who stared at the elf with a menacing glare. Bordorn nudged his arm and asked him to come inside. The white beard exhaled sharply and turned away. The two entered the inn, where they were greeted by a smiling Ghaldeon behind the desk. Bordorn explained they were going to the tavern first, and she nodded and told them to enjoy themselves. He was grateful for the hospitable welcome, for after traveling with Lorac for nearly two weeks, he was sick of icy stares and sharp tones.

“I’m about to drive my axe into that elf’s skull,” Krondious said, as they walked down the hallway.

“I wouldn’t stop you except one thing,” Bordorn replied. “Something tells me, we’d have to fight Roskin, too.”

“You may be right, but I’m done with his attitude.”

“Me, too, Kronny.”

As they entered the tavern, Kohldorn saw them and called out in joy. He came from behind the bar and shook both their hands. He looked around and asked where Roskin was, a look of worry on his old face. Bordorn stated he was outside and didn’t want to come in. The barkeep asked why, and Bordorn and Krondious both shrugged. Kohldorn scrutinized them for a moment and then called to a young dwarf at the bar:

“Go fetch Krestreon. Tell him his friends have returned.”

The dwarf finished his drink and hurried down the hall. Kohldorn pointed for them to find a table and went behind the bar. He returned shortly with two tankards of ale and set them at their table. The dwarves thanked him, and each took long pulls from their beverages. Bordorn needed to clear his head and think this through. The king had betrayed them, leaving them with no army, and Roskin was lost in his own world. Bordorn had no idea how to fix this. He took another long drink and leaned back in his chair, resting his aching body. After a few minutes, Krestreon entered the tavern, dressed in new clothes and wearing a sword on his hip.

“What’s wrong with Roskin?” he asked. “He wouldn’t even speak to me. And who’s that elf?”

“Someone we met on Delkhun,” Bordorn replied, disgust in his tone. “We think he’s what’s wrong with Roskin.”

“Well, it’s good to see you both,” Krestreon said, laying his sword on the table before sitting. “Are the troops behind you?”

“There are no troops,” Bordorn said.

“I don’t understand.”

“My cousin lied to us.”

“What happened?”

Bordorn explained the whole story, and Krestreon interrupted often with questions. When Bordorn described all forty-three dwarves hanging outside the castle, the dwarf leaned forward in his seat.

“All of them?” he asked, after a long pause.

“All.”

“That’s harsh, even to send a message.”

“Too harsh,” Krondious said, running his thumb up and down the handle of his tankard. “That wasn’t just.”

“The king wields a heavy hand,” Kohldorn said, setting three fresh tankards on the table.

“I’ve been judged by a king,” Krondious said, barely above a whisper. “And I can tell you mercy goes much farther.”

“Agreed,” Bordorn said. “I’m ashamed to call him my cousin.”

“It’s not all bad news,” Krestreon said.

“How so?”

Krestreon grinned and leaned in closer. He explained that since they had captured Alganeon, word had spread through the countryside and many Ghaldeons wanted to join the dwarves who stood against tyranny. Arching an eyebrow, Bordorn asked how many, and Krestreon said nearly a hundred.

“That’s a start,” Krondious said.

“A hundred against ten thousand?” Bordorn asked.

“More will come,” Krestreon offered.

“We need rest,” Bordorn said, before taking yet another long drink.

“I’ll arrange rooms for you,” Kohldorn said.

Bordorn thanked him and told Krondious to wait there while he went for Roskin. Krondious nodded and mumbled about not wanting to see the elf anyway. Bordorn strode outside and told Roskin and Lorac that they were getting rooms in the inn. Without turning to face him, Lorac said they would prefer to sleep in the woods. Bordorn stepped closer and asked Roskin to come inside, but the Kiredurk shook his head and tightened his cloak around his shoulders. Bordorn studied his friend, whose face appeared strained from fever. He asked Lorac to please tell Roskin to come inside.

“Elves prefer the outdoors,” Lorac said, still facing east.

“He’s sick.”

“I’m fine,” Roskin snapped, shivering as he said it. “Leave us alone.”

Bordorn sighed and stepped off the porch to retrieve his sword and Krondious’s axe from the horse. He would feel safer having them close at hand if any soldiers showed up in the night. As he strapped the sword around his waist, Lorac turned to face him.

“How long do you plan to linger in this place?”

“A day or two. Then, we’ll head to Mount Lokholme.”

“That’s north. We need to head east.”

“No,” Bordorn quipped. “We don’t. In case Roskin hasn’t told you, there’s an army on the doorstep of his kingdom that we’re trying to defeat.”

“What army?” Roskin asked, his voice distant.

“This is madness!” Bordorn called, hefting Krondious’s axe from the horse. “You know what army! Pull yourself together, Pepper Beard.”

“Watch your tone with me, dwarf,” Roskin growled. To Bordorn, his voice sounded like Lorac’s.

Gripping the axe tightly, Bordorn turned and headed up the steps. He couldn’t fight his friend, but if he stayed there a moment longer, he would say something that would make it inevitable. Walking through the lobby and down the hallway, he calmed himself. When he entered the tavern, he laid the axe on the table and told the others he was going to bed. Krondious rose, lifted his axe, and said that sounded like a good idea. Kohldorn handed them two keys, mentioning that each room had two beds. Bordorn handed him one key back and said to hold the other in case Roskin came inside. The old dwarf nodded and explained where the room was located. Krondious and Bordorn ascended the steps to their room, collapsed on their beds, and were asleep within minutes.

***

As moonlight shone down on him, Kwarck knelt beside a stream and took a deep breath. In all his planning and maneuvering, he had pulled one too many strings, disturbing the balance of nature. That’s why all this had happened. He hadn’t felt anything from Roskin since the last night at his farm and needed to know where he was. Using all his energy, he searched for the heir, but no feeling would come. He washed his hands in the cold water and splashed some on his face. There was only one choice left, and it was the last one he wanted. Clearing his mind and focusing, he reached out to Lorac. A wave of coldness rushed through him as he connected with the Dark One.

I offer my life in place of the boy’s,
Kwarck said.

Why would I want a pathetic healer when I have a warrior in his prime?

You know my powers. You’ve sought them for years.

I no longer need them.

There’s no chance this will work. Even if you reach the forest, the two of you will not be allowed to stay.

And who will stop us? It seems all the warriors have left.

Kwarck froze at the thought. An image of Lorac and Roskin standing over the slain elders filled him, and Lorac laughed.

Thank you for giving me the path home,
the dark one said.

I will stop you.

You will die.

With that, Lorac shoved Kwarck from his mind, and the hermit collapsed, gasping for breath. Slowly, the coldness faded, and he struggled to his hands and knees. Contacting Lorac filled him with the same poisoned sensation as the night of darkness, and he crawled to the stream and washed his hands again. As the water rushed over his skin, the feeling evaporated. He settled by the stream and stared at the stars twinkling in the darkness. Though it had sickened him, connecting with Lorac had shown him two things: He now knew where they were in the Ghaldeon lands, and Lorac hadn’t yet fully broken Roskin’s mind. Otherwise, the two would already be moving to the Koorleine Forest. Roskin was stronger than Kwarck had believed. He smiled at that and drifted off to sleep, the sound of the stream in his ears.

***

In the first light of morning, Bordorn stood on the steps of the inn with Krestreon and Krondious, looking out at the dwarves who had come to join them. Roskin and Lorac were nowhere in sight, and they had taken the horse. As Bordorn scanned the crowd, he noticed that nearly all the dwarves carried bows, but few had swords. From the crowd, an old dwarf stepped forward and bowed.

“I fought against the Great Empire when they first attacked our lands, and I served in the Resistance for many years. Is it true you plan to drive them from our lands?”

“We will fight them,” Bordorn said. “But our numbers are few.”

“I’m old, now, and not the warrior I once was, but you have my bow,” the dwarf said, kneeling. Behind him, the others knelt, too.

“Please, know,” Bordorn said. “The king isn’t sending any troops.”

“He’s no king of mine,” the old dwarf said, struggling to his feet. “I serve the house of Logruhk.”

Dozens of Ghaldeons echoed the old dwarf, and Bordorn warmed at the mention of his great uncle. He had no memory of the vanished king, but during his days among the Kiredurks, his uncle had told him many stories. King Logruhk had been a kind and generous Ghaldeon, and though he lacked the military skills to fight the Great Empire, his uncle had always claimed he was regarded as a good king. Hearing these dwarves, some of whom like him hadn’t even been born when the king disappeared, affirmed all his uncle had told him. He stepped off the porch and shook the old dwarf’s hand.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Bordorn said.

“Are you King Logruhk’s son?” the dwarf asked, peering at him.

“No,” Bordorn said, taken aback.

“You look like him.”

Bordorn had been told that as a boy by his kin, the ones who had sought exile among the Kiredurks, but hearing it from a stranger struck him as somehow more real. He thanked the old dwarf and told the crowd to get plenty of rest, for they would march for Mount Lokholme at first light the next morning. The dwarves cheered at the news and disbanded, moving to their campsites on the edge of town. Bordorn returned to the porch, where Krondious stared at him.

“Are you crazy?” the white beard asked. “We can’t attack that army with them.”

“It’s okay, Kronny,” Bordorn said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I have a plan.”

***

Bordorn found Roskin and Lorac in the woods across from the inn. Roskin sat on the earth, staring down, his expression almost catatonic, and the elf stood motionless, still gazing to the east. Bordorn sat beside Roskin and touched his friend’s arm. Without looking up, the heir jerked away and wrapped his arms more tightly around his body.

“Ghaldeons have come to help us fight,” Bordorn offered. “We march at first light.”

“Where?” Roskin asked.

“The slopes of Lokholme.”

“Is that where I want to go?” Roskin asked Lorac.

“No, we need to move east.”

“Look here!” Bordorn said, standing and placing his hand on his sword’s pommel.

Lorac spun around, one of his swords drawn, and pressed the tip of the blade to Bordorn’s neck. The elf’s aged face twisted in a ravenous contortion of hate that sent a chill through the Ghaldeon.

“The only reason you still have life is because I choose not to end it.”

“Roskin’s home is in danger,” Bordorn whispered, moving his hand from his sword.

“His home is in the Koorleine Forest.”

“I think I’m supposed to go north,” Roskin said, looking up at them as if they were having a pleasant conversation. “I can’t remember why, but it seems important.”