Red Sky at Dawn (14 page)

“Your feelings were right, Roskin. Something awful has happened to your home, to the Kiredurks.”

“Just tell me what’s going on,” he responded. “This is wearing thin.”

Together, Crushaw, Kwarck, and Vishghu explained to them about the war. The other dwarves listened with mere curiosity, but as the story came into focus, Roskin began to feel ill, as if he had eaten something bad. Before they could finish all the details, he ran from the house to the fields, fell to his knees, and vomited. In a moment, Crushaw was beside him, offering a rag to clean his beard.

“What have I done?” Roskin asked, looking up at his friend.

“I’ve seen wars begin from less,” Crushaw said, sitting on the freshly turned dirt. “But whatever you think right now, I’ll guarantee there’s more to this than what you did.”

“I have to get home. I have to get Bordorn and get home.”

“I can’t go with you, young master. I’m too tired for another fight.”

“I understand,” Roskin said, seeing the age in his friend’s eyes. “But I have to get home.”

With that, he jumped to his feet and went back to the house. The other dwarves were eating their meal and discussing the news, but they fell silent when he entered the room. Without speaking, he gathered his pack and weapons from beneath the chair and then turned to Kwarck. The hermit had already prepared a small sack of dried meats and nuts, and before Roskin could say anything, he held out the sack.

“I wanted to spend some time with you,” Roskin said, stuffing the bag into his pack. “There’s so much I want to learn.”

“Perhaps, when this is over, you’ll come back.”

“I will,” he answered, starting for the door.

“Just a minute,” Leinjar said, standing from the table. The other Tredjards followed suit. “You’re not going anywhere without us. Are you coming, Molgheon?”

“This ain’t my fight,” she answered before taking a bite.

“It’s okay,” Roskin said to her. “You’ve already done more than anyone had a right to expect. My kingdom will always be grateful. I’ll always be grateful.”

“I’ll head north to the clans,” Vishghu interrupted. “Maybe, I can talk some sense into them.”

“I’ll do likewise,” Roskin returned, looking around.

“Let me finish this meal,” Molgheon said, not glancing up from her plate. “And I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Roskin said, turning back to her.

“I know that,” she said, cutting a piece of meat. “I’m a dwarf of the Resistance. I don’t
have
to do anything except take my last breath.”

Kwarck excused himself from the room and went outside. Roskin and the Tredjards strapped on their packs and weapons while Molgheon finished her meal. They were at least two weeks from Bordorn and then another week or two from the western gate, and after the months of constant marching, the thought of this last push was almost too much. Roskin’s body wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, to let the ache ease from his legs. He had hoped for a week or so of eating the fresh meats, nuts, and vegetables that Kwarck prepared each night, but that was not to be.

When Molgheon finished, they said farewell to Vishghu and went outside. Kwarck, Crushaw, and the Ghaldeons were in the yard, talking softly to each other by a weathered hay wagon, but as the dwarves came from the house, they ended the conversation and walked with them towards the west. No one said anything until they had crossed the last cow pasture and were on the edge of Kwarck’s land. Then, Crushaw spoke in a low voice that barely hid his emotions.

“I’ve never had better soldiers,” he said. “I wish I had the strength to go with you.”

“It’s okay,” Roskin said, reaching out and shaking his friend’s hand. “I’ll be back to see you in no time.”

“Yeah,” Molgheon added. “This’ll end soon. Take care till we get back, Red.”

“Be wary, young master. I fear there’s more to this than what we’ve heard.”

“Don’t worry, General,” Leinjar said. “I’ll watch them.”

“Be safe,” Kwarck said. “War is a terrible thing. Mind that you don’t lose your self in it.”

“If it’s all right with you,” one of the Ghaldeons asked Roskin. “We’d like to come with you. The way we see it, you’re as much our king as anyone has ever been, and we’ll pledge our lives to protect yours.”

“You’re free dwarves with beards as thick as mine,” Roskin answered. “If you want to travel with me as such, I’ll be proud to walk beside you.”

Each Ghaldeon shook Roskin’s hand to show their allegiance, and when that was done, there were many handshakes and hugs goodbye between the dwarves and Crushaw and Kwarck. Then, the group turned west and marched away from the hermit’s home and towards the lands of the Kiredurk outcasts where Bordorn waited. The sun was high in the sky, and the day had grown rather warm. Spring was giving way to summer, and the thick grass of the prairie had already begun to show hints of yellow in the plush dark green.

An Ominous Sign

Hardly more than a year had passed since Roskin had recuperated in the logging town among the Kiredurk outcasts, but as he walked the last couple of miles to Bokwhel’s house, it seemed a different lifetime. She had taken him in without knowing any more about him than that he was injured, and she cared for him with tenderness and concern. Most of his memories of those weeks were good, but when time came for him to leave, she had turned strange, acting as though he were not healthy enough to travel when in fact he was fully healed. It had been as if she needed him to be hurt. And then there was Jase, her adopted son who had accused Roskin of being selfish and ungrateful for leaving in such a rush when there were soldiers that wanted him dead just down the street. Those words had stung then and nagged at him now, making him wonder if he had indeed not returned enough kindness to Bokwhel and her husband.

Despite having left on uneasy terms, he had to visit them to gather as much information about the goings on in town as he could, and as he cleared the last rise, the house and yard came into view. The sight of it unsettled him. In the yard, grass had grown well over waist deep, and trash littered the walkway. On the porch, piles of garbage stood as tall as him, and a pungent mixture of rotten food and stale alcohol wafted from the mounds. Even among the slaves and the lowest of the lowly orcs, Roskin had never seen such filth, and for a moment, he thought he had come to the wrong house. While Bokwhel and Dagreesh had never been steadfast cleaners, they had also never let their home look like this.

Roskin kicked a path across the porch and, placing his right hand on the pommel of his sword, knocked on the door with his left. After a few moments, their only natural child, Jokhreno, opened the door, and, when she recognized him, smiled and asked him to come in. She had been one of the first healers to care for Roskin after he had been shot by two arrows, and if not for her skill, he might not have survived the ordeal. Seeing her, he relaxed his grip on the pommel.

“Welcome back, stranger,” she said, shuffling to the chair that Dagreesh usually sat in after work.

While the porch was shocking, the inside of the house was horrifying. Before, the living room had been a humorous mess, mostly knick-knacks and clutter the old dwarves wouldn’t part with. Now, piles of dirty dishes and empty bottles buried the clutter in a layer of grunge and decay. Soiled clothing lay in clumps around the floor, and every flat surface seemed to be coated by a thin layer of crumbs. Roskin’s breath caught in his throat, and he gagged from the stench.

“What’s happened here?” he asked, stretching the front of his shirt over his mouth and nose.

“Pappy died last winter,” she returned, her face a mask of sadness. “We’ve had a rough time.”

“Dagreesh died?” Roskin asked. “How? What happened?”

She explained that after Roskin and Crushaw had fled, the humans from the Great Empire had remained, claiming the small town as their own. Then, they proceeded to tax the dwarves heavily, taking as much as any of them had to give and still asking for more. Dagreesh, already old and tired, had to work even longer and harder to pay the new taxes, and as the cold and snow had moved in, his health had turned bad. It didn’t take long for illness to overwhelm his frail body.

“Where’s Shaman Bokey?” Roskin asked.

“In the bedroom. She hasn’t come out since the funeral.”

Not excusing himself, Roskin made his way through the house to her room, and there on the bed, lay an old dwarf he barely recognized. She had lost weight, and her skin hung from her frame in an unnatural looseness. Her face, contorted with grief and sorrow, was creased with deep wrinkles. Other than her shallow breathing, she looked as if she had already passed away.

“May I come in?” Roskin asked.

Without opening her eyes, she groaned what sounded like an affirmation, so he went inside the room and sat on the side of her bed. She held out her hand, and he took it. The coldness of her skin shocked him.

“Who’s there?” she asked, still not opening her eyes.

“It’s Roskin, Shaman Bokey. I’m passing through on my way home.”

At his name, she opened her eyes and looked at him. A flicker of anger crossed her face but was replaced by a weak smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a dry whisper. “I was mean to you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Roskin returned. “But that’s over, now.”

“He’s gone.” She squeezed his hand more tightly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes again.

“He was a good dwarf,” Roskin said. “His beard was thick as any.”

She nodded.

“Where’s Jase?”

“He doesn’t stay here much any more.”

Roskin’s temper rose at her words. Jase had always been lazy, faking sickness to get out of work, but at the very least, he had always loved his “nanna.” The thought of him not caring for her now made Roskin’s heart race.

“I have to leave, Shaman Bokey. There’s a friend who needs me, and I have to get home, but I’ll make sure Jase comes here to help you.”

“It’s no use,” she said.

“I have to get home, but I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“My time has passed,” she said, opening her eyes again, her expression clear and lucent. “They took it all from us, and nothing will ever satisfy them.”

At that, she closed her eyes and fell silent. They sat together with only the sounds of birds for several moments.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Roskin broke the silence, not knowing what else to say.

“Go find your friend,” she said, letting go of his hand. “Save him from them.”

With that, she rolled away from him, groaning as she mustered what little strength was left in her atrophied muscles. His heart broken, Roskin stood from the bed and went back to the living room, where Jokhreno still sat in her father’s chair. Well before noon, the bottle of wine beside her was already half empty.

“You’re a good healer,” Roskin said, looking her in the eyes.

“Was,” she said, her voice distant and sad. “They won’t let dwarves do that anymore.”

“You don’t need their permission.”

“What do you know about it?” she snapped.

“Not much, I guess.”

Storming out the door, he didn’t wait for a response. On the porch, he kicked his way back through the piles of garbage and strode towards the camp where Molgheon and the others waited. He hadn’t expected to find this family desolated, and the images, still so fresh in his mind, weighed on him heavily. In part, he was responsible for bringing ruin upon them, and there was no way to make it right. Staring straight ahead, he marched away from the house and refused to look back for one last glance.

***

Sliding a ball of wax up and down her bow string, Molgheon listened to Roskin explain what he had learned about the Great Empire’s presence in the logging town. He was wanted by their army for killing a soldier in Murkdolm, so he wouldn’t be able to enter the town. The others didn’t know Bordorn and wouldn’t know where to look, so that left her as the one who would have to sneak passed the soldiers and retrieve the dwarf who had lost an arm and nearly his life to protect Roskin. She didn’t mind the task, however, for to her, any opportunity to get one over on the Great Empire was a chance she would take.

“Move to the western side of town,” she said. “We’ll be there by sunset.”

“Should one of us go with you?” Leinjar asked, rubbing his beard.

“No, two can be spotted quicker than one.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Roskin said. “Be careful in there. Something’s not right.”

“Just get to the western side. Bordorn has been here long enough, poor thing.”

She returned the ball of wax to her pouch and rose from the ground. Then, without saying farewell, she slung the bow over her shoulder and started for town. For early summer, the day was cool and pleasant, and she enjoyed the walk. While not quite the mountains, the logging town was in the foothills, and everything felt more like home. The trees, underbrush, and grass were more familiar, and to her, the air even smelled better here.

As she neared the edge of town, two soldiers patrolled the perimeter. Before they spotted her, she moved behind a blue spruce and waited for them to pass. After a few heartbeats, she peered around the trunk and, seeing that all was clear, sprinted from the tree to the nearest building. She stood against the wooden wall and caught her breath, glancing around to make sure no one had seen her. Satisfied that she was safe, she moved around the building and darted to the next.

She continued this way from structure to structure until she reached the one that had been the infirmary where she had left Bordorn. Given the Great Empire’s tendency to eradicate dwarven culture, she couldn’t be sure that he would still be here, but to her, this was the best place to start. Using a storm drain, she scaled the wall to the second floor and peered inside a window. The room was empty, so she raised the pane and climbed inside.

The room had only a small bed and a cabinet with three drawers, but it was obviously still a room for the sick and wounded. Her spirits lifted from this realization, and she moved to the door that led to the hallway. She had lived in this building for several weeks, watching over Bordorn until the slave trader had come looking for Roskin, so she knew its layout very well. She pressed her ear against the door and listened for any noises.

Not hearing anyone, she slowly opened the door and leaned forward to glance down the hallway. It was empty, so she stepped out of the room and crept towards where Bordorn had been kept. When she got a few feet from the door, two sets of footsteps began up the stairs, and two human voices talked back and forth as they climbed. Quickly, she opened the nearest door and ducked inside.

On the bed, a Kiredurk lay completely still, save the slight rise and fall of his chest. He had lost his right leg, and the sheets were dark with blood, some of it fresh. His face was gray and sunken, and from her experiences with the injured, he was well beyond healing. As she closed the door, he opened his eyes and called to her in a low moan. Luckily for Molgheon, his voice was too weak to travel far, so she rushed across the room and motioned for him to keep quiet.

When she leaned over him, his eyes were wide with terror, like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, and he began thrashing his head back and forth on the pillow. She had seen dying soldiers do similar things from their fear of death, so gently, she took his trembling hands in hers. Feeling her touch, he stopped thrashing and looked at her. His eyes narrowed to near normal size.

“Be brave,” she whispered. “Don’t let them see fear. You’re still a Kiredurk.”

“I’m cold,” he moaned.

In the hallway, the humans closed the door across the hall and were talking about the patient in that room. Letting go of his hands, Molgheon motioned again for the dwarf to stay quiet and then crawled beneath his bed. Her bow scraped on the floor as she did, and she cursed under her breath for not removing it first. Then, the door opened, and the two humans walked a couple of steps into the room.

“Is this one
still
alive?” one asked.

“Looks like it. I don’t know why they even brought it here. What a waste of good sheets.”

Molgheon gritted her teeth and clenched her fists to keep herself from going after them.

“Let’s head on to the tavern.”

“Sounds good. It should be dead by morning. The mess’ll keep till then.”

They turned and left the room, and as soon as the door caught in its latch, Molgheon crawled from beneath the bed and looked at the dying Kiredurk. The fear had returned to his eyes, so she sat on the edge of the bed and held his hands. Softly, she hummed an old lullaby to him, one that she had also hummed to her husband on his death bed.

She sat with the unfortunate dwarf for over an hour, forgetting about Roskin and Bordorn. Her life had been a torrent of death and dying, and like Crushaw, she wanted nothing more than to leave battle behind and spend at least a few years happy. Before Roskin had come to Murkdolm, she’d thought that’s what she’d found at the tavern, but she had just been lying to herself. Her life among the humans and defeated dwarves had been a sham, and every day had been one long struggle after another not to grab a weapon and take a few, dwarf and human alike, with her.

What she wanted was a small house high in the mountains, far from anyone. If she couldn’t grow it or kill it herself, she didn’t want to be bothered about it. She wanted to learn to make delicious meals like Kwarck and the Marshwoggs prepared. Most of her life had been without good food, so to her the notion of preparing nice meals every day was the height of decadence. Most of all, she wanted to rest.

After a time, she noticed that the dwarf had fallen asleep, a nap from which he would never wake, so she quietly and gently stood from the edge of the bed and went to the door. There were no noises in the hallway, and she stepped from the room and continued towards Bordorn. At the end of the hall, she entered the room where she had left him, and somewhat to her surprise, he lay on the bed across the way.

His cheeks were sunken, and his body was lean, but he was there and alive. Molgheon breathed a sigh of relief and started for him. As she crossed the floor, she caught sight that his good arm and both legs were tethered to the bed with thick leather straps. She froze in the middle of the room. Roskin had warned that something didn’t feel right, but in her haste, she had ignored him. Now, she too felt that this was strange. Motionless, she waited for several heartbeats and listened for someone approaching, but after not hearing anything, she continued to the bed where Bordorn lay sleeping.

She began undoing the strap on his good arm, and as she did, he groggily stirred and mumbled unintelligibly. After unbinding his arm and glancing around for any intruders, she moved to his feet and began working on those straps. With his good arm now free, Bordorn motioned for her to come closer, and as soon as she finished loosening the straps, she moved to the head of the bed and leaned near his mouth.