Between Dark and Light (9 page)

“Krestreon? Your papaw was Hemelreon, right? Why, you disappeared two decades ago.”

Krestreon related the story of his capture by the orcs and how his papaw had died trying to protect him. He introduced the other Ghaldeons and Roskin, explaining their escape from bondage, the Battle for Hard Hope, and the long march home. Roskin was grateful Krestreon didn’t mention his status as the exiled heir to the Kiredurk kingdom, for he wasn’t sure how that would be received.

“I always hoped Hemelreon was safe and sound somewhere, and it hurts to hear he died like that. But welcome home, young one. Let me get you dwarves a round of ale, on me.”

Krestreon thanked him, muttering about not being so young anymore, and as Kohldorn chuckled, Roskin’s apprehension diminished slightly. At least the barkeep seemed friendly, but the dwarves at the bar hadn’t even glanced in their direction. Something about this town wasn’t right, but other than a nagging feeling, the dark fear had offered no vision of what was amiss. The barkeep returned with seven tankards of ale and, after serving them, raised his own and proposed a toast to the safe return of Krestreon. Roskin took a long drink, the ale sweet and fruity on his dry tongue.

“Do you still make your rabbit stew?” Krestreon asked.

“Of course, boy!” Kohldorn exclaimed, stroking his gray beard. “I remember how much you and your papaw loved my stew. Six servings coming right up.”

“Actually,” Roskin said, stopping the barkeep. “Can you make it eight servings and two more ales? Two of our companions are outside with the horses.”

“Certainly,” Kohldorn said. “Have it right out. Oh, this is a good day.”

When the barkeep returned with the bowls of steaming stew, Roskin took two bowls, the crockery hot against his bare hands, and started for the lobby, but he was greeted in the hallway by ten well-armed Ghaldeons with menacing expressions. One he recognized as the Ghaldeon who had left the porch. Roskin stopped mid-stride and stepped back to allow the dwarves into the tavern.

“It’s nice to see travelers on such a fine day,” one of them said, advancing towards Roskin.

“We’re just passing through,” Roskin responded, his hands burning from the bowls.

“That so? Well, since you’re strangers, I’ll forgive you for not knowing our customs.”

“Actually, I’m from here,” Krestreon said, rising from his seat and moving beside Roskin.

“Really, now? Then, why don’t I know you?”

“He’s Krestreon,” the barkeep said. “The young one who disappeared so many years ago.”

“Shut up, gray beard,” the Ghaldeon said, pointing his finger at the old dwarf who lowered his head and stepped back. “Not another word.”

Roskin clenched his jaw and considered tossing one of the bowls of hot stew in the dwarf’s face, and under different circumstances, he might have followed the impulse, but his mission was too important to squander time on a bully. Instead, he slowly turned and set the bowls on the table, hiding the pain in his hands and fingers.

“Krestreon, eh?” the Ghaldeon asked. “Do you recognize me?”

“Afraid not,” Krestreon said, squinting to study the dwarf’s face. “Too many years have passed.”

“A shame. I’m Alganeon, magistrate of Horseshoe Bend.”

“Alganeon!” Krestreon exclaimed, extending his hand. “We learned to fish together on Willow Bank.”

At his gesture the nine other dwarves drew their swords and readied themselves in low guard, but Alganeon raised his hand to stop them. The dwarves didn’t advance but held their stances, glaring at Krestreon, Roskin, and the others. Roskin braced himself, preparing to grab a chair to defend himself if necessary.

“Please, forgive my guards,” Alganeon said, smiling. “They’re overly protective. Since you’re an old friend, I’ll forgive your transgressions this time, but all who enter this town must pay the toll for using my roads.”

“Since when is there a toll?” Krestreon asked, his voice rising an octave.

“Since I said so,” Alganeon sneered. “Now, that’ll be one gold coin each, plus the horses.”

“That’s absurd,” Krestreon scoffed.

“Let me handle this,” Roskin said, grabbing Krestreon by the elbow and pulling him backwards. “I’ll pay your toll, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Make it fifteen gold coins for his insolence.”

Roskin took his pouch and counted out the coins. He handed them over and motioned for his companions to leave. Then, he laid two more coins on the table and thanked the barkeep for his hospitality. The five freed slaves had already reached the hallway, but as Roskin moved to join them, Alganeon blocked his path.

“I’ll take that pouch,” he said, winking.

Roskin’s temper flared, but he took a deep breath and held it out. Alganeon snatched it from his hand and felt the weight.

“Smart dwarf,” he grinned. “Now, get moving and don’t come back.”

Pulling back his shoulders as if about to address his father, Roskin strode down the hallway to the main door. Outside, Krondious and Bordorn were surrounded by twenty more heavily armed Ghaldeons, five of them those who had been sitting on the porch. Despite the odds, both dwarves had their weapons drawn ready to fight. The freed slaves were busy un-tethering the horses, shaken by the scene they had just witnessed.

“Put your weapons away,” Roskin barked at Bordorn and Krondious.

“We can take this filth,” Krondious growled.

“Do as I say,” Roskin snapped. “We’re moving on.”

“Listen to your master,” Alganeon said, emerging from the inn. “And maybe we’ll let you keep those weapons.”

Roskin told Krestreon to lead them out of town, and Krondious reluctantly returned his axe to its place on the pack horse. Bordorn followed suit, and the group followed Krestreon south down the wide street. Behind them, the thirty Ghaldeons jeered and teased them as they went. Krondious glanced back once, but Roskin snarled at him to keep his eyes forward. Huffing audibly, the Kiredurk obeyed. They marched for an hour, crossing the river and several small hills. Deep tensions rippled through the group as they walked, and no one spoke. Once they were a safe distance from town, Roskin ordered them to halt and called them together.

“If anyone has anything to say to me, say it now,” he spoke sternly.

“We should’ve split their skulls,” Krondious said, waving his arms about. “Those dwarves were no match for us.”

“I agree,” Krestreon mumbled. “How could you just cave in like that?”

“Anything else?” Roskin asked.

Nobody spoke.

“Let’s make one thing clear,” Roskin said calmly, his voice deep and authoritative. “We’re not here to fight our own kind. We’re here to raise an army to fight the Great Empire. I got us out of there best I could to keep us focused on that goal and that goal alone. If anyone has a problem with that, you’re free to part my company right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Krondious said, hanging his head.

“Me, too,” Krestreon added. “We’ve got a higher purpose.”

“I give both of you my word,” Roskin said. “One day, we’ll go back there and settle the score. That thief needs to be brought down a notch or two, but right now, time is short.”

The dwarves nodded their agreement, and Roskin made a point to shake hands with each, stopping at Krondious.

“Make no mistake,” Roskin said, gripping the dwarf’s powerful hand. “You have nothing to prove to anyone.”

With that, he told them to eat lunch and be ready to march in half an hour. Kehldeon was two days away, and he wanted to reach it soon. He had hoped to offer the acting king his gold as a gesture of good faith, and without it, he wasn’t sure how to gain the dwarf’s favor. Since his father’s decision not to send troops during the Resistance, relations between the two houses had been strained. He would have to find some way to impress him, and after this fiasco, he would again have to win over the freed slaves, for he could sense from their body language that they didn’t understand why he hadn’t stood up to Alganeon. None of them had been leisure slaves, so he didn’t know how to explain his unwillingness to shed dwarven blood. Hopefully, he would think of something to sway the king and regain their respect before they reached Kehldeon. As he pondered these thoughts, Bordorn sat beside him.

“You did right back there, Pepper Beard,” the Ghaldeon said. “You got us all out alive.”

Roskin shrugged.

“I’ve been thinking about something, and I know my timing is terrible, but please consider it.”

“Okay?”

“We both know King Johreon won’t be easily convinced to help the Kiredurks.”

“I know.”

“But he might be willing to help the Snivegohn Valley Militia.”

“There’s no such thing,” Roskin said, arching his eyebrows at his friend.

“Sure there is. Me and these five Ghaldeons.”

Roskin cocked his head at Bordorn, considering the idea.

“I’m the great-great nephew of Logruhk the Vanished. King Johreon is a distant cousin. He might feel a sense of duty to help me defend the valley.”

Roskin finally realized what Bordorn was saying, that instead of asking for help for the Kiredurks, frame it in terms of helping the Ghaldeons defend themselves against the army that had already toppled one Ghaldeon king.

“And this time,” Roskin added. “I’m representing my father’s decision to support the cause. What do you think?”

“That’s a nice touch, Pepper Beard.”

“Let’s give it a try,” Roskin said, smiling at his old friend.

“It’ll be like that time we convinced your father we weren’t the ones who took the royal coach out at night.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Roskin chuckled. “We didn’t even have stubble yet.”

“Those poor guards we blamed it on.”

“Let’s rehearse our story,” Roskin said, still chuckling.

The two dwarves went over the tale, embellishing details and weaving together a plausible foundation. The Great Empire had overrun the valley, and Bordorn, who led the militia, had retreated to the slopes of Mount Lokholme. Seeing the peril, King Kraganere had dispatched Roskin and a thousand troops to assist. The Kiredurk force would attack from the slopes of Mount Gagneesh, and Bordorn was asking King Johreon to approach Lokholme further south to create three fronts against the Great Empire. The two dwarves rehearsed the story throughout the lunch rest and after they resumed marching, making sure their details matched. Krondious and the Ghaldeons joined in practicing the subterfuge, and by nightfall, they all had it memorized, down to the names of the captains left in charge of their respective forces.

***

Captain Roighwheil inspected the repairs underway on the southern gate and was pleased. Judging by the damage to the surrounding tunnels, the gate had been completely destroyed, but now, the masons had rebuilt the archway three blocks deep and had entrenched anchors into the stone to hold the new gate. The blacksmiths had already fashioned it and were waiting for the last of the mortar to set before fastening it to the anchors. Since Roskin had passed through, they had worked day and night to rebuild the fortification.

The captain was proud of Roskin for ordering the work done, for even with the small force from the capital, he felt confident they could hold off any size force until reinforcements arrived. If these repairs were just beginning and the Great Empire attacked, he would have had no chance to defend the gate. He was also proud of the dwarves who had laid the blocks and fashioned the gate. Their skills rivaled those of the old masters who had built the earliest sections of the kingdom, for the new archway and gate were as sturdy as any the captain had seen.

He found a Ghaldeon among the blacksmiths and asked the dwarf to follow him outside. On the trail, the captain, who like Roskin couldn’t see clearly further than a hundred yards, asked the Ghaldeon if he could see the army in the valley. The blacksmith walked to a clearing and peered out. After a moment, he turned to the captain and said:

“We better get that gate finished. There’s thousands of soldiers down there.”

“Could you tell if they’re on the trail up or just in the valley?”

“Looks like they’ve camped in the valley, but I can’t see the trailhead.”

The captain thanked the blacksmith and led him back inside. The Ghaldeon returned to the other blacksmiths and relayed the news. A ripple of panic ran through them, and the foreman, a thick-chested Kiredurk with a gray beard went to the masons and asked how much longer the mortar needed to set. The master mason quipped something hateful at the foreman, and as they squabbled, several blacksmiths and masons began shoving each other.

“Settle down!” Captain Roighwheil bellowed, his voice thunderous in the tunnel. The blacksmiths and masons froze and looked at him. “There’s no need for this nonsense.”

“We need to get that gate up,” the foreman returned.

“If you start hammering on that stone before the mortar’s ready, you’ll create weak spots, and the whole thing will collapse the first time it gets rammed,” the master mason said, his tone still hateful.

“How much longer?” Captain Roighwheil asked, his own tone telling the mason not to cross him.

“At least a full day.”

“What if that army is already on the trail?” the foreman asked the captain.