Red Sky at Dawn (15 page)

“Leave me here,” he mumbled.

“Get to your feet,” Molgheon returned, hoisting him to a sitting position.

“Leave me here,” he repeated.

“There’s not much time,” she added, wrapping his good arm around her neck. “We’ve got to get moving.”

“It’s a trap,” he mumbled. “Run while you can.”

Her heart in her throat, she looked towards the door, and suddenly, a handful of soldiers rushed into the room, their weapons drawn. She looked out the window to see if she and Bordorn could jump for it, but in the street, more than a dozen archers were already aiming at them. She was cornered and couldn’t even unsling her bow. Slowly, she laid Bordorn back on the bed and then stood still.

“Welcome back, barkeep,” a voice said from behind the soldiers.

A captain from Murkdolm entered the room, a human of average height and slender build, with sandy blond hair and a well-groomed beard. Molgheon recognized him as one that often had come to her tavern to extort taxes from the workers. He was not known as merciful to dwarves, and more than once she had had to grit her teeth while he had beaten someone unable to provide the money.

“Now, you and that renegade will pay for the soldiers you murdered,” the captain said. “They were good men, with families that loved them.”

“We only fought in self-defense...”

“Shut your mouth, dwarf,” he said, backhanding her on the jaw hard enough to snap her head to the side. “You don’t speak to me without permission.”

Then, he turned to the guards and ordered them to lead her to the town’s cage that usually only held rowdy drunks until they sobered up. There, they would wait for Roskin to come looking for her, and when he too was caught, they would both be punished accordingly. The guards took her bow, arrows, and dagger and bound her hands behind her back. At their touch, she shuddered but, unable to stop them, retreated to a quiet corner of her mind. Glancing at Bordorn, who had fallen back asleep, she moved towards the hallway and hoped that he would be okay.

***

As twilight faded into darkness, Roskin paced back and forth among a grove of spruce. The rest of the dwarves lounged on the soft ground, enjoying the cool night air, but he knew something was wrong. Molgheon and Bordorn should have already been there, and he was ready to go looking for them.

“Calm down,” one of the Ghaldeons said. “They’re barely late.”

“Something has happened. I know it.”

“Do you know it like you knew something was wrong in your kingdom?” Leinjar asked, rubbing his beard.

“It’s different. I just know Molgheon. She’s never late.”

“Well,” the Ghaldeon added. “I say we wait a while longer.”

“I have to know if they’re okay,” Roskin said. “All of you can wait here if you want, but I’m going into town.”

Without a word, the Tredjards stood from their resting places and gathered their packs and weapons. Seeing the Tredjards, the Ghaldeons did likewise, and in a few moments, the entire group was making its way through the sparse woods back toward town. When they reached the outskirts, Roskin motioned for them to hide behind a stack of freshly cut timber. The smell of sap was strong in the air, and the ground around the pile was soft with wood powder.

“Wait here while I scout for her,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

With that, he darted from behind the wood and ran across the short opening into town. While the buildings were mostly still the same, the town itself was completely different. Before, on a night like this, there would have been musicians in the town square and at least a dozen townsfolk dancing. Now, very few dwarves were on the street, and all of them walked with their heads down and their eyes cast on the ground right before them. At various intervals, human soldiers patrolled the streets, sometimes mocking a dwarf, sometimes jabbing at one with the blunt end of a weapon, and sometimes snapping orders at another. The scene reminded Roskin of Murkdolm.

Staying in the shadows, he navigated around the soldiers until he reached the town square, where two dozen humans stood in a square formation, six facing each direction. Their mail glittered in the torchlight, and in the middle of the formation, the town’s drunk cage had been placed on a stone platform. Inside, Molgheon stood erect with her head high. Her bottom lip was busted and swollen, and the strain of having stood for too long in an uncomfortable position showed around her eyes, but she offered no sign of surrender.

Many years before when he had first seen the oldest remaining Kiredurk settlement, Roskin had felt a wave of pride that his kin had built such persevering splendor. Now, before her defiance, the same sensation washed over him. Still remaining in the shadows, he circled around the town square and found that, in addition to the twenty-four soldiers in the open, at least another two dozen were hidden in various locations to cut off the retreat of any would-be rescue. Once he had memorized their positions, he headed back to the woodpile.

Remaining calm but not wasting time, he gathered the freed slaves into a circle and drew the soldiers’ formation and ambush points in the dirt. As he did, Leinjar interrupted with questions about weapon types with each group. Roskin responded that the soldiers in the formation all bore halberds but the ambush units had both swords and bows. When Roskin finished the briefing, Leinjar leaned back against a thick log and rubbed his beard.

“The odds are no good,” he said. “There just aren’t enough of us to take on that many well-armed soldiers.”

“I agree,” one of the Ghaldeons said. The others murmured their affirmation.

“We can’t leave her or Bordorn with them,” Roskin responded.

“That’s true, too,” Leinjar said. “We just need more of us to fight them.”

“How many?”

“A couple dozen would be good. Three even better.”

Roskin turned and stared at the town. The dwarves who lived here were either the descendents of or themselves outcasts from his kingdom, so their loyalty was suspect at best. Now, with the tyranny of the Great Empire already weighing on them, he wasn’t sure how many would have the courage to stand up to ones who punished even minor resistance with cruelty. Still, he
had
lived among them for several weeks and had gotten to know many of them quite well from his nightly trips with Jase to the main tavern. Asking them to rise up against these humans was worth the effort.

“Let’s try to recruit a few,” he said. “Follow me to the tavern. When we get there, stay hidden. I know them, and strangers will make them uneasy.”

They moved across the open space and into the dark shadows. Moving as a unit, they crept from building to building until they reached the alley beside the tavern. Without a word, Leinjar motioned for them to hunker down amongst piles of garbage, and once the others were hidden, Roskin slunk to the main street. A patrol marched by but didn’t notice him in the shadows, so when they were a good distance down the street, he stepped from the alley and moved to a window along the front of the tavern.

Through it, he saw several familiar faces, mostly loggers who worked all day and spent each night commiserating over a few tankards of ale. Their faces looked more haggard and forlorn than before as the strain of the Great Empire’s taxes had taken its toll. In the back corner at his usual table, Jase sat with a couple of Kiredurks Roskin had never met, a treacherous looking pair who seemed like they’d rather steal than work. For his part, Jase was dressed in new clothes that belied the condition of Shaman Bokey’s house. Roskin’s temper rose at the sight.

Placing his right hand on his sword’s pommel, he entered the bar. At first, most of the dwarves didn’t notice him and continued with their hushed conversations, but as he made his way to Jase’s table, more and more recognized him. By the time he reached the lazy dwarf’s table, a tense silence had fallen over the tavern and all eyes were on him.

“Look who’s back,” Jase said, a smug expression on his face.

“Your nanna needs you,” Roskin said. “Have you forgotten about her?”

“She’s just sad,” he returned. “We’re all sad for poor Dagreesh.”

“You should get home, boy,” Roskin said. “And for once earn your keep.”

“That’s mighty big talk for a renegade all by himself,” Jase said to one of his companions. “Mighty big, indeed.”

“I’ve got no fight with you two,” Roskin said. “This is between me and him.”

“Any renegade wants to mess with Jase has to go through me,” one of them said, standing from his chair.

With one sharp jab, Roskin broke the dwarf’s nose, and he slumped to the ground with blood pouring onto the wooden floor. The other thief jumped from his chair and raced for the back door, abandoning Jase and the one on the floor. Roskin stepped towards Jase, who sat frozen in his seat. A murmur of excitement went through the crowd. Reaching down, Roskin took hold of Jase’s silk shirt and hoisted him from the seat.

“Go home,” Roskin said, slapping Jase across the mouth. Several in the crowd laughed out loud. “She deserves better than that.”

“Leave me alone,” Jase whimpered. “You’re making a big mistake.”

Roskin grabbed Jase’s beard and dragged him towards the door. When they reached it, he tossed him outside and told him again to go home. Jase lay on the dirty street for a moment before crawling to his hands and knees.

“Things have changed around here,” he said, nearly in tears. “You messed up, renegade.”

Ignoring him, Roskin closed the door and turned back to the crowd, most of whom were laughing and slapping each other on the back. He walked to a table nearby and climbed on it. Then, after clearing his throat, he called for the crowd’s attention. Again, a tense silence fell over them.

“Dark days have come,” he began. “These humans will not leave your town on their own. Many of you remember me from last year, and many of you remember my friend, Molgheon. She’s a brave dwarf and a good friend, and right now, they have her in a cage in the town square. My companions and I are going to rescue her, but we need your help.”

“Why should we get involved?” a dwarf called from the back of the room.

“How many of your friends or family have suffered from their cruelty?” Roskin returned.

“Too many,” a second dwarf answered.

The crowd began murmuring to each other their own tales of hardship, but Roskin quieted them with a booming voice:

“We can drive them from this town tonight, if you help us.”

“They’ll come back with more,” the dwarf in the back spoke again.

“Maybe,” Roskin said, nodding. “But I offer you this, as well. I am Roskin of the Dark Beard, Eleventh Heir of the Eight Kingdom and first son of King Kraganere.”

A gasp of shock came from them, and anger filled some of their faces.

“If you stand with me tonight, you and your families will be welcomed back in our kingdom. For those who want to remain above ground, you will be paid well for your efforts.”

“I’ve no love for the humans,” one dwarf with a hunched back said to the crowd. “But my hate for that throne runs deep. I say let the humans have him.”

Several dwarves shouted their agreement, and a bolt of fear shot through Roskin as he realized that revealing his identity might not have been a good idea.

“Settle down,” a thick-bearded dwarf at the bar called out. His chest and arms were broad with muscles from the years of chopping wood. “This dark beard was our friend. Nothing has changed that for me.”

“He’s the son of the leech that expelled my family to this place,” the other dwarf replied. “That changes a lot in my mind.”

“Some of you are second and third generation above-grounders,” the stocky dwarf continued. “Me, I was personally expelled by Kraganere. I spent my time goofing off and causing mischief, nothing terrible, mind you, but I wasn’t productive. For most of my youth, I was in front of the local magistrate for not pulling my weight, and as I became an adult, I got lazier and lazier. I appeared before the king five times, and for the first four, I was warned to straighten up, but I refused to listen. On the fifth visit, the king sent me here to live among the outcasts.

“You might think I’d be bitter about that, and for a time, I was, but now that I’m older and have learned that life is hard, I see that the blame is with me and me alone. More to the point, I was given four chances to do better by a just and wise ruler. These maggots don’t give us even one fair chance, so if you’d rather stand with them, go home and don’t help him. For my part, I’ll stand with my own.”

“Here, here,” several called out.

“I’ll not support that throne,” the bent dwarf said, standing from his seat and moving towards the door. “Your beards are too thick for your own good if you do.”

A handful of outcasts followed him to the door. Those that remained gazed back and forth between Roskin and the thick-chested Kiredurk at the bar. Roskin, moved by the dwarf’s comments, stared at him with a hint of awe. After a few moments of silence, the stocky one spoke:

“We’d better get moving if we’re gonna help your friend.”

“You’re right,” Roskin returned. “Let me get my friends from outside.”

He hopped off the table and hurried outside to the alley. Leinjar and the others followed him back inside where Roskin introduced them as heroes of the Battle for Hard Hope. The outcasts cheered at this news, but Leinjar silenced them.

“There’s not time for this,” he said. “We need a plan, and we need it quick.”

“It might be too late for plans,” a dwarf near the window said, pointing outside.

On the street in front of the tavern, Jase stood with two dozen human soldiers armed with swords. The lazy dwarf spoke with the captain of the group, pointing inside and nodding. Roskin then realized that Jase’s new status and disregard for Bokwhel were because he had betrayed his own kind to profit from the humans, like the slave trader Torkdohn. As he stared at the traitor, his hatred burst into a white ball that burned in his heart. Under his breath, he vowed to end the dwarf’s worthless life.

“You dwarves head out back,” the stocky one barked, motioning to the rear of the building. “We’ll hold them off while you make for the town square. We’ll meet you there shortly.”