Between Dark and Light (25 page)

“It’s Roskin!”

“It sure sounds like it. Rouse the troops. We’ll not wait for light. I’ll send my runner to alert Sondious we’re engaging the Great Empire.”

The captain ran through the damaged tunnels, calling for the Kiredurks to grab their armor and weapons. Within minutes, they had assembled near the gate, some wiping sleep from their eyes and others grumbling about the hour, but the General of Dorkhun silenced them. He told them to listen to the sounds below, and as the clangs of metal drifted up to them, the Kiredurks came to attention. The general told them that Roskin had gathered an army to fight the humans. Several conversations broke out, but again, the general silenced them.

“Are we gonna leave him down there alone? Or are we gonna fight?” the general asked.

“Fight!” the soldiers screamed.

“For Roskin!” the general cried, starting down the road at a trot.

The Kiredurks cheered and followed him. Captain Roighwheil fell in line and found his pace. He had fought in many battles against the ogres, but those had felt more like perfunctory chore than real defenses of the kingdom. Now, for the first time in more than thirty-five years of his military career, he was excited to charge into battle. As they jogged down the hill, the dwarves began chanting, “For the heir, for the king, we fight. We fight. We fight.” Tears filled the captain’s eyes as he chanted with them, for ever since the earthquake, he had felt as if the kingdom were lost. At this moment, he was pleased once again to call himself a Kiredurk, and he was proud of Roskin for coming through. Having his faith in the young dwarf rewarded was the greatest feeling he had known since the birth of his son.

***

Bordorn woke with a start and reached for his sword. Beside him, Krondious leapt to his feet and ran to the clearing that overlooked the valley. The other dwarves had awakened, too, and Bordorn called for them to steady themselves and find their weapons. The newly arrived soldiers strapped on their armor, and the general strode to where Krondious peered down the slope.

“It’s Leinjar!” Krondious yelled at Bordorn. “The Tredjards are attacking!”

“What?” the general asked.

“A friend of Roskin’s,” Bordorn said, running to the clearing.

“Well, boys, so much for sleep,” the general said to Bordorn and Krondious. He turned to his soldiers, who had assembled behind him. “I know your legs are tired, but we have waited too many years for this chance. Tonight, we honor our ancestors. Tonight, we reclaim our lands!”

The roar that erupted from the Ghaldeons, soldier and volunteer alike, hurt Bordorn’s ears, and he winced from the sound. The general didn’t wait for them to fall quiet. Instead, he drew his sword and started down the slope, and Krondious marched beside him. The Ghaldeons followed them, the soldiers and volunteers blending together into one column, including the nineteen elderly who so far hadn’t fought. Bordorn ran back to his campsite and strapped on his shield. Then, he hurried back and caught up with the tail of the line.

***

The Tredjards swept through the southern half of the valley with little resistance, but Captain Polmere’s line halted their advance. Now, the dwarves and humans fought fiercely. Because of the ambush, the Tredjards had gained the advantage in numbers, but the humans who had rallied around Polmere had regained their wits and struggled against the onslaught. He moved along the line, shouting instructions at the frantic soldiers, and the Tredjards’ momentum stalled. For nearly an hour, dwarves and men fought in the middle of the valley, the clangs of metal echoing off barns, houses, and distant slopes. Then, the dwarves fell back and formed a stationary line across from the captain’s front. As the dwarves formed their line, Polmere rushed from platoon to platoon, screaming orders and sending runners to call for more troops from the base of Mount Gagneesh. For the rest of that night, however, the Tredjards didn’t attack again.

At first light, the fighting resumed, and this time, the Tredjards were joined by a small force of Ghaldeons from the west. In daylight, Captain Polmere was stunned by the sheer number of dwarves. His force, which the day before had seemed impenetrable, had been thinned by at least two thousand troops during the ambush, and now, the dwarven line wrapped around each flank, even as most of the troops from the north had joined this force. However, the soldiers had regained their organization, and their years of training and drills carried the day as they repelled every attack. By nightfall, the dwarves retreated again, and Captain Polmere believed that by the end of the next day, his men would drive the dwarves from the valley.

On the third day of fighting, Captain Polmere still deemed his troops could win the battle, and as the lines pushed against each other throughout the afternoon, his men did thrust the Tredjards back on the eastern flank. But these dwarves were not the lazy, heartless rock-brains he’d been taught about all his life. From his command position watching the battle unfold, he saw how they rallied each time his men gained an advantage. These dwarves fought with tenacity and honor, and even the Ghaldeons on the western flank were unlike any he had known in Murkdolm. Those downtrodden peasants shuffled through their days with eyes cast downwards. These warriors displayed discipline and resolve, holding the flank and even driving his men closer to the valley’s center. As afternoon faded to evening, so did his last glimmer of hope for salvaging the battle.

With darkness overtaking the valley floor, his scout grabbed his arm and pointed north. Approaching at a steady trot, a column of Kiredurks charged what was now his rear guard, and he shouted at the closest platoons to face them. The men scrambled into position, forming a thin line, but before the Kiredurks even reached them, the captain knew his men couldn’t hold the ground. The Kiredurks were too many, and moving those platoons had weakened his main line. His heart sank, for he knew the battle was lost. They were outnumbered and surrounded with only one direction to retreat. He grabbed his scout’s arm and yelled into the man’s ear:

“Do you remember any paths to the east?”

“I can find my way,” the scout replied, his eyes wide with terror.

“Get us out of here!”

The scout didn’t hesitate, bolting between the front and rear lines, and Captain Polmere stayed on his heels, calling to the soldiers to retreat. Dozens of platoons broke off from the fighting and followed them. Using houses and barns for cover, the scout drove them east, and the platoons lucky enough to hear the retreat order reached the woods before the dwarves could cut them off. The ones that didn’t continued to fight, and as he darted into the trees and started up the first hill, Captain Polmere listened to their screams as the dwarves overran their lines. Gritting his teeth, he stayed close to his scout, who marched swiftly up the rise. Of the ten thousand soldiers who had held the valley just three days earlier, less than a thousand followed the captain and his scout out of Snivegohn Valley.

***

In the middle of the valley, Leinjar stood, soaked in blood and sweat, his breathing ragged. As his adrenaline faded, his arms and legs grew rubbery. Beside him, his sons, too, were soaked in blood, but neither had been injured. The two leisure slaves had cuts and scrapes but weren’t seriously wounded. Leinjar asked his oldest son to gather reports from the officers. He wanted to know how many Tredjards were dead and wounded and how many prisoners they had captured. Zhenjar saluted and rushed off to find the officers. Leinjar asked his youngest to find them water.

Dwarves had emerged from their homes, terrified from the three days of fighting but joyous at the liberation, and all around the valley, cheers and songs replaced the clash of metal and screams of battle. Tehnjar hurried to the closest farmhouse and returned with a bucket of water. Leinjar thanked his son and took a long drink. Light snow fell, and as he took a second drink, Captain Roighwheil approached him, followed by another Kiredurk.

“Leinjar,” the captain said. “This is the General of Dorkhun.”

“It’s good to see you, Captain,” Leinjar said, setting down the bucket and shaking his hand. He greeted the general, bowing his head in courtesy.

“The Kiredurks are grateful,” the general said. “We didn’t expect this.”

“Neither did they,” Leinjar chuckled, waving his hand at the fallen humans.

The dwarves all laughed.

“Some got away,” the general said, turning serious. “Do you think they’ll head for Sturdeon?”

“Maybe,” Leinjar said. “We’ll follow their trail after we’ve rested.”

“They could’ve fled to Rugraknere,” Bordorn said, walking up to the group with Krondious beside him. “When we left, the Great Empire controlled much of those lands.”

Since they were all soaked in blood, Leinjar didn’t hesitate to hug them. Though he had spent little time around either, because of Roskin, they felt like close friends. Captain Roighwheil hugged them as well, saying he was proud of what they had done. The group exchanged stories, explaining what each had done up to that point, and when everyone finished, Leinjar looked around and asked where Roskin was.

“That’s a long story,” Bordorn said. “But he deserves credit for this.”

“Yes, he does,” Leinjar said. “I would’ve never returned home if not for him. Is he okay?”

“We don’t know,” Krondious responded. “He’s got some kind of strange fever.”

“Where is he?” Captain Roighwheil asked. “We can get him to healers.”

“We don’t know that, either,” Bordorn said. “He wandered off with an elf.”

“An elf!” the general exclaimed.

“I know Roskin,” Leinjar returned. “He has his reasons.”

“I hope you’re right,” Krondious said.

“We’re all exhausted,” Leinjar said. “Let’s get some rest and discuss this in the morning.”

The dwarves agreed and shook hands before splitting up and heading back to their troops. Leinjar watched the small flakes of snow drift to the ground and asked Tehnjar to see if the farmers who had given him the water would let them sleep in their barn. His son jogged back to the house, and Leinjar sat down. His muscles had tightened up in the cold air, and he groaned as he sat. The reality of defeating the Great Empire had not fully sank in, but he had come through for Roskin. That thought gave him peace. The Snivegohn Valley was free and the Kiredurk gate no longer threatened. He would sleep well that night.

Chapter 14

In the Darkest Hour

A fine powder of snow covered the southern slopes of Mount Khendar. Sprigs of dried, yellow grasses poked through the wisps of white, and the wind blew light flurries in erratic swirls through the air. Kwarck stood atop a small rise, watching Roskin and Lorac approach. The hermit had felt the heir for two days, a foggy, confused noise of anger and hate. Roskin’s mind lingered on the edge of cracking permanently, and this would be the hermit’s only chance to save him and prevent the Dark One from reaching the forest. As the two neared him, the cold, poisoned sensation filled him, and he was powerless to resist it.

Move away, feeble one, and I’ll make your suffering short.

“Roskin,” Kwarck called. “Don’t give in to him.”

Roskin looked at Kwarck, no flicker of recognition in his eyes, and the hermit pushed with all his might to enter the Kiredurk’s mind. A sharp pain shot down his spine, and he crumpled to his knees. In his mind, Lorac laughed.

Your skills are no match for mine.

“What happened to you, Lorac?” Kwarck asked, raising to his hands and knees.

“You really want to know?” Lorac returned, his voice almost humble. “I saw the future. This future. Our people slaves and refugees. I learned this world is a dark, evil place.”

“That’s not true,” Kwarck returned, struggling to his feet. “There’s good in this world.”

“There is?” Roskin asked, looking at Lorac.

“Like you, healer? Are you good?” Lorac mocked. “Every living being on this planet cares only for itself.”

“Don’t listen to him, Roskin.”

“Let me prove it, son of Sylva,” Lorac said. “Do you think it was your idea to go after that statue?”

Roskin stared in the distance, as if scanning his memory.

“Kwarck planted that seed in your mind. He guided you to Murkdolm.”

“Is that true?” Roskin asked, his voice distant.

“Not like he says,” Kwarck responded, stepping forward.

“He’s a liar,” Lorac huffed.

“Did you lead me from home?” Roskin asked, his expression as one remembering something long forgotten.

“Yes,” Kwarck said, holding out his palms. “But it’s not what he says.”

“You see!” Lorac exclaimed. “You’re a murderer, and he’s power hungry. You’re both just like me.”

“No,” Kwarck said calmly. “Listen to me, Roskin. Please.”

“Enough of this,” Lorac said. “Kill him.”

Roskin drew Grussard’s blade and started for Kwarck. The hermit backpedaled and pushed into Roskin’s mind, begging the heir to stop. Suddenly, Roskin doubled over in pain and slumped to his knees, crying out. Another sharp jolt ran down Kwarck’s spine, and Lorac shoved him from Roskin’s mind. Kwarck collapsed, the cold racing through him. Roskin remained where he was, moaning.

Very well, healer. I’ll kill you myself.